


Jane's Study in Pink

by TheNarator



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: American Girl Writing About British School Systems, F/M, Guardian Angels, M/M, Sherlock's Guardian Angel is a Johnlock Shipper, Supernatural Elements, Teenage Counterparts to the Main Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:23:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNarator/pseuds/TheNarator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which all of the main cast are looked after by teenage guardian angels, Sherlock's angel ships Johnlock, Scotland Yard has a patron saint and John's angel is a doujinka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jane's Study in Pink

 The room in which Jane was sitting was small, cramped, and rectangular. The wall to her left was entirely covered in books shelves, stacked with everything from books to file folders to random objects that didn't really look like they belonged in an office at all. Facing the wall to her right was the desk, also cluttered with papers and books, and sporting several dark brown rings from where mugs of tea had been placed carelessly in the midst of working. In front of her was the only window, behind her was the only door, and she was sitting in a most uncomfortable chair facing a small, reedy woman with her gray hair in a tight bun, whose attention was almost completely on the computer that took up the center of the desk.

 

“Name?” inquired the woman, her school councilor, in a bored voice.

 

“Jane Williams,” she said. The chair she was sitting in should not be so uncomfortable.

 

“Age?”

 

“Eighteen.” Shouldn't that be obvious from the fact that she was entering University?

 

“Area of interest?”

 

“Pre-med.” A lie, Jane thought bitterly. A practiced, automatic lie, but a lie none the less. It would have been easier if the woman had said 'major' or 'intended area of study'. She just _had_ to say 'interest'.

 

There was a moment's pause as the woman typed away at her keyboard. She frowned, her tiny eyebrows knitting together in her small, wrinkled face, and she glanced at Jane sideways.

 

“Your résumé includes an inordinate number of arts credits for a medical student,” probed the councilor gently.

 

“Everybody has hobbies, and Mum thought it would look good.” Another lie. She never used to lie, but she was on a roll today. The things giving up one's dreams did for a person.

 

The councilor studied her contemplatively for another moment, but Jane's discomfort for the subject must have shown on her face because the questions resumed a moment later. Damn, she would have to get better at hiding it. She couldn't go through the rest of her life with everyone thinking she was completely miserable.

 

Even if it was true, it wouldn't do to have everybody know it.

 

The meeting was concluded uneventfully. As Jane left the administrative building and started for her dormitory her mobile suddenly buzzed in her pocket, signaling a text message. Fishing it out curiously she groaned at the sight of her brother's number.

 

_bored with uni yet?_

 

Jane ground her teeth as she walked. Flipping out the keyboard without stopping, she typed out a reply.

 

_Sod off Harry!_

 

That was immature. Well, she was in University now. On a journey of self-discovery, right? Maybe without the comics she was just naturally immature.

 

_lol, look @ u using proper caps in a text!_

 

She really needed to stop grinding her teeth. She'd need some annoying dental appliance soon.

 

_Auto-correct. Its your damn brand-new-top-of-the-line phone that you forced on me._

 

_& nothing 2 do with u bein a gramar nazi_

 

Maybe it was the childish insult that did it, but Jane couldn't help but go for the low blow next.

 

_How's Lesley?_

 

Harry didn't reply, and Jane savagely shoved the phone back into the pocket of her jacket, trying to find satisfaction in the small victory. Harry must have realized that his ex-boyfriend would be calling his old number, but Jane knew perfectly well Harry and Lesley had finished just before she left. Something about Harry being a reckless little sod. Well, she couldn't really disagree with that. It was Harry who'd made the stupid bet in the first place.

 

As though the school had been designed by some old-fashioned prude, the girls and boys dorms were at opposite ends of campus. Unfortunately the school was just on the outskirts of London, which meant that one outgoing road had to cut through the grounds, so the girls dorms were separated from the rest of the school buildings by crosswalk with a traffic light. Jane hammered impatiently at the little button to signal for the light to change, glaring up at the green circle hung overhead. Two girls came up beside her, quickly looked both ways, then darted - shrieking with laughter - across the road, apparently high on the adrenaline. Jane shook her head. Despite the fact that no cars could be _seen_ coming there was a sharp curve in the road to her left, and she waited, annoyed, for the light to turn before she crossed.

 

Once inside her dorm room Jane dumped her bag on her desk chair and collapsed on the bed. She lay there a moment, staring at the opposite side of the room, perfectly symmetrical but for being completely empty. Technically this room was supposed to be a double, but no matter who she asked nobody seemed to know when her elusive roommate would turn up to move in, and Jane was beginning to wonder whether she was simply going to get the room to herself.

 

The laptop on the desk gave an annoying little artificial chime.

 

Jane's eyes snapped to it immediately, but it took a full minute before she could work up the energy to get up and push her bag onto the ground, sitting in the chair and lifting up the screen to reveal the website she'd been looking at before she'd had to leave for her appointment.

 

_ **Cloud Nineteen** _

_Creativity of the Heart is very rare, the Pen has a Power when it's there_

 

She had used to think that the title and tag-line for her doujin circle's website were so clever. Now just _looking_ at the main page, which she herself had helped design, made her sick.

 

Which would never explain why she couldn't seem to close it.

 

At the bottom of the screen a bubble invited her to chat. She clicked on it, bringing up the page where Kelly had already begun.

 

**K-chan:** hey, you there J?

 

Jane stared at the words, wondering if it was worth replying. She didn't really want to talk about what she knew Kelly wanted to talk about, but she couldn't think of a reason to shut her friend out of her life.

 

**PlainJ:** here

 

**K-chan:** no new posts from you lately.

 

Kelly never had been one to beat around the bush, Jane mused.

 

**PlainJ:** not doing much drawing anymore.

 

**K-chan:** just because your dad didn't let you go to art school doesn't mean you should just give up.

 

**PlainJ:** its more than that.

 

**K-chan:** what then?

 

Jane bit her lip, thinking. There really was no reason why she couldn't continue drawing comics. It really had only started as a hobby, despite how quickly it had grown into an obsession. She could still draw comics even if she wasn't allowed to study art.

 

**PlainJ:** no inspiration.

 

**K-chan:** now THAT i understand.

 

When had lying become so easy?

 

With no more classes left in the day Jane could do nothing but fiddle around with her laptop until dinner. She tried playing solitaire, but that lasted about as long as she'd expected it to, and soon she found herself in Cloud Nineteen's archives, looking at her old work. The pages of the doujinshi she'd been working on stared back at her as though in challenge. It was a pretty basic story; a pack of werewolves trying to adjust to life in the city. Some of the pages she'd colored, others were little more than blotchy sketches. She'd thought, though, that with time and careful work they might have made a decent graphic novel.

 

So much for that.

 

At last a reasonable hour for dinner arrived, and Jane pulled her jacket back on and made for the door. Before she could open it however she caught sight of her reflection in the full length mirror on the side of her wardrobe. She looked, and she cringed at the thought, positively frumpy. The white buttoned blouse was exceedingly modest and a bit too big for her, the pleated, plaid skirt was too long and too muted in color to be fashionable, and the knee high socks were baggy and faded, disappearing into ugly brown trainers. Her stature was short, her face was mousy and pinched, and nothing could persuade her dishwater blond hair to grow past her shoulders. Looking into her own watery brown eyes, Jane decided then and there that she was simply going to have to resign herself to going straight from awkward-but-ambitious-teenager to frumpy-middle-aged-woman without anything worthwhile in between.

 

It was not yet dark but the light was fading, and the green traffic light hung serenely above the crosswalk, cheerfully inviting nonexistent cars to keep driving. Not that any cars were coming, Jane thought in annoyance, jabbing at the button. Rather than going straight back it curved oddly to one side, and no satisfying click greeted her ears, reassuring her that the light would change eventually. She stared up at the light, then at the path beyond it that led to the rest of the world, and dinner. To either side of the cobbled path was gently sloping green, the rest of the buildings hidden just beyond the crest of the hill. She tapped her foot impatiently, checking her watch. The light really should have changed by now. What if the button was broken? She could be standing here all night. Jane sighed, then quickly glanced in both directions and darted out into the road.

 

It was just her luck, she later had time to muse, that an intercity bus (slightly behind schedule) came hurtling around the corner just in time to hit her full force.

 

***

 

_“Jane.”_

 

_She was floating. Floating in a great white nothingness. She hadn't the faintest idea which way was up and which was down, but it seemed somehow radically unimportant at the moment. There was a pregnant silence all around her, the air (was it air?) seeming to hum with potential energy._

 

_“Jane.”_

 

_Was that her name? Yes, that was her name. Jane._

 

_“Jane Williams,” she whispered to herself, as though in confirmation._

 

_“Open your eyes Jane.”_

 

_It was only at these words that she realized her eyes were closed. Opening them, she found it didn't really make much difference. Still all that she could see was whiteness in every direction, and as she blinked the scene did not change. But wait, perhaps it was changing. Yes, there was something there. Something directly in front of her. Or perhaps she was lying down and it was above her. Or perhaps neither of them was at all oriented in space in any way. All she could see was a figure, blurry and out of focus, almost indistinguishable from the whiteness._

 

_“Am I dead?” she asked of the figure. Somehow the question seemed more important than the answer._

 

_“Not yet,” it replied, in a voice like light made into sound, airy and resonating. “You are being given another chance.”_

 

_“Another chance?” Jane repeated, eyes blinking slowly._

 

_“Yes,” the voice assured, still ethereal and melodic, but somehow sharper, more . . . sarcastic? Jane blinked a little faster now, wondering why._

 

_“You have the opportunity to help people, Jane. Special people. If you accept this mission, you can return to life.”_

 

_“What kind of people?” Jane asked, her mind feeling a bit clearer._

 

_“_ Special _people,” the voice repeated. Now she could definitely detect a note of annoyance._

 

_Jane blinked rapidly for a moment, trying to clear the fog from her vision, and her head. “Help them how?”_

 

_“Look, do you want this job or not?” demanded the voice, airiness gone to be replaced by biting impatience._

 

_“Oh its a job now, is it?” Jane retorted, annoyed now as well._

 

_“I could just let you die,” the voice pointed out._

 

_Jane shrugged. “Alright, if it means that much to you I'll do . . . whatever it is you want me doing.”_

 

_“Deal!” cried the figure, and suddenly Jane caught a glimpse of two piercing blue eyes._

 

_Then she was falling._

 

***

 

“Miss? Miss?! Are you alright?”

 

Jane jolted upright, eyes snapping open as she suddenly became very aware of the night air around her, the grass beneath her body and hands, and the oddly pleasant-unpleasant feeling of being conscious after not being so for a length of time.

 

“Wha . . .” she said intelligently.

 

“You alright?” asked a voice to her left, making her turn to take in the sight of a kneeling, and very frightened looking, bus driver.

 

“I'm-” she shook her head, “I'm fine, I think.”

 

“You're probably in shock,” the bus driver told her, pushing gently on her shoulder in an attempt to place her back on the grass, “you shouldn't move, your spine might be-”

 

“If my spine was injured then sitting up would have broken my neck already,” Jane dismissed, pushing his hand away. “I feel fine.”

 

“Err . . .” the bus driver tried to protest as Jane got to her feet. “Wait, you probably should-”

 

“I'm fine!” she threw back over her shoulder as she walked briskly back towards her dormitory, appetite forgotten. Once inside her room she collapsed back on the bed, previous pent up energy completely gone, and fell almost immediately asleep.

 

***

 

“Jane.”

 

A voice pulled at Jane's consciousness, dragging her gently but unwillingly from the murky depths of slumber. Someone was calling her name. Her sleep-fogged brain jolted, wondering if perhaps she was back in the White Space, but her senses helpfully supplied that there was darkness rather than lightness all around her. Her eyes were closed.

 

“Jane.”

 

The voice. That was what was the same from last night! It was the same one that had offered her the deal, the so-called second chance in exchange for unspecified help to mysterious people. Special people.

 

“Jane!”

 

Her mouth and eyes snapped open at once, fully prepared to take in the sight of the intruder and tell them off without any time in between, but she immediately found her vision dominated solely by a pair of sharp blue eyes.

 

Jane screamed.

 

“Hush!” hissed the voice that had woken her, a cool hand clamping hard over her mouth to stifle the sound. Jane's heart rate kicked into high gear as her eyes darted wildly over the face inches above her own. Thin, smooth and pale, with high angular cheekbones and a pointy little chin beneath those icy eyes.

 

And physically impossible. This girl (for indeed it was a girl that the face and hand were attached to) was hovering completely unsupported over her bed.

 

“I'm going to move my hand,” announced the Impossible Girl. “Do not scream again. It's very unpleasant.”

 

The hand was removed without waiting for a reply, and Jane sucked in a shaky breath. She was tempted to scream again just the same, but somehow the hard, unyielding look in the intruder's eyes made her decide against it. It wasn't that the eyes promised consequences for disobedience, but rather they seemed so determined that their will be followed that not doing so seemed rather impossible.

 

That was perhaps more frightening than a threat.

 

There was an odd whooshing sound and the face retreated rapidly from Jane's vision, pulling back directly upward so that the Impossible Girl was floating several feet above her rather than several inches. Then she . . . _hovered_ to the side, tilting as she went to land smartly on her feet in the middle of the floor.

 

This was quite the oddest person she had ever encountered, Jane thought as she sat up in bed. Supernatural powers of levitation aside, the Impossible Girl had a most unusual appearance. She was thin and tall, though clearly quite young, about Jane's age or a bit older. Her hair was long and wavy, jet black and adorned with an equally black barrette of silk flowers at the crown of her head. Her skin was flawless and luminously pale, or at least what was revealed of it was; her clothes were exceedingly modest. She was wearing a black dress, buttoned all the way up to her throat and fastened with a glittering broach, with frills all down the front. The sleeves were full length and tight, with slight puffs around the shoulders and black lace at the wrists. The skirt went all the way down to her ankles, and while it didn't look like it would restrict her movement a great deal it looked slightly too voluminous to not hide at least one petticoat. Peaking out from beneath it were a pair of pointed lace-up boots with a slight heel, and around her neck was a black velvet choker, with a round silver pendant. 

 

She looked like she'd just stepped out of the Victorian era. Or a very formal funeral.

 

“Who _are_ you?” Jane asked reverently.

 

The Impossible Girl smirked, a smug smile of complete satisfaction.

 

“Sephiria Hart,” she said, winking, “the best Guardian Angel in London.”

 

Jane stared. The Impossible Girl, Sephiria, smiled. “That best _what_ in London?” Jane choked after a moment.

 

“Guardian angel,” repeated Sephiria, contemplating her nails, which Jane now realized were also black. “The best in London and possibly the world, as I've yet to meet anyone quite like myself.”

 

_That makes two of us_ , Jane thought incredulously.

 

“Listen, not to be rude, Miss Guardian Angel-”

 

“Sephiria, please,” the girl waved her hand dismissively, “we'll never communicate properly unless we're on first-name terms.”

 

“Right,” Jane yielded, “Sephiria. Um, can I ask what you're doing in my dorm room?”

 

Sephiria rolled her eyes. “Isn't it obvious?” she asked lightly.

 

“Not really,” Jane prompted, getting another eye roll.

 

Sephiria smiled, a sly, patronizing smile that made Jane feel cornered. “Because you're my new assistant, of course.”

 

“I'm your _what?!_ ” Jane spluttered, mouth agape. “How did that happen?”

 

“You agreed to help me,” Sephiria stated bluntly. “Last night, don't you remember?”

 

“So you are the figure from the White Space!” Jane concluded triumphantly, then faltered. “Wait, help _you_? I thought the deal was to help special people, or something.”

 

“Well you don't get much more special than the world's best guardian angel,” Sephiria said haughtily, “but actually its not me you'll be helping per se. Its the assistant to my principal charge. I'll just be taking you under my wing.”

 

She paused. “No pun intended.”

 

Jane shook her head. “So, I'm just meant to take your word for all this?”

 

“No,” Sephiria replied easily, “you're meant to believe what you see.”

 

Jane opened her mouth to demand what exactly she was supposed to be seeing when Sephiria's hand shot out to grasp her own tightly. The blond didn't have time to splutter an indignant protest before their joined hands were brought up before her eyes as though to demonstrate that they were real and then she was released, to watch Sephiria cross to the door that led out into the hallway.

 

And pass right through it.

 

Jane openly gaped. She got up, tossing aside the covers which had somehow wound themselves around her in the night and darted over to the door. She stopped in front of it, inspecting it for signs of failing structural integrity, then lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles on it sharply. It didn't give, her hand meeting solid wood that produced a low knocking sound when struck. She studied it another moment, until Sephiria's head came abruptly back through, startling her badly and nearly sending her tumbling backwards onto the floor.

 

“Now get dressed,” the angel demanded, as though she had done nothing more impressive than walk through smoke. “We don't have much time. I let you sleep as long as I could, but we have to get going. It's about to start.”

 

Jane dressed in an awestruck daze, only sparing a fraction of her mind to wonder what on Earth _it_ could be. Sephiria, thankfully, left her alone, waiting on the other side of the door until she was fully dressed. She did come back the very moment Jane was finished, leading her to wonder if perhaps Sephiria had been watching after all, but she wasn't given time to question as she was immediately taken by the upper arm and dragged towards the room's one window, directly across from the door.

 

“Hang on a minute!” Jane protested as she was forced almost up against the glass. “What are you-”

 

Sephiria cut her off with a sharp push to the back, and Jane quite abruptly found herself outside the second story of the building. She shrieked in panic, her stomach clenching as she felt herself begin to fall, but a pair of thin but surprisingly strong arms fastened swiftly around her waist. Her vision was momentarily obscured by a flurry of black feathers, and then with a great whooshing noise and a rush of air she found herself rising into the sky.

 

Jane shrieked again.

 

“Oh hush!” Sephiria snapped as she circled to gain height. “There's no time to explain, I delayed too long! I'm a pretty fast flier we'll be there in a minute!”

 

Quickly they left the school behind and began soaring over London. Jane watched in fascination as the ground whizzed by beneath her shoes; cars shooting in every direction, lights blurring as they passed, hundreds of faceless people scurrying hither and thither in lively streams of human life. It was odd and terrifying and wonderful all at once.

 

“Enjoying the view?” Sephiria called over the wind.

 

“Can I . . . do this, now?” Jane asked. She _refused_ to outright ask if she could _fly_.

 

“Not yet,” Sephiria replied, but didn't elaborate.

 

They touched down in a park. Jane couldn't be sure of the exact location because before she could get her feet under her properly Sephiria had her by the wrist and was dragging her down a path toward a bench, where a man with glasses sat reading a newspaper.

 

“I'm terribly sorry sir!” Jane squeaked in alarm as Sephiria thrust her down onto the bench to one side of him and then took the opposite space for herself. The man didn't answer, simply continued reading his newspaper.

 

“My friend is a bit . . . abrupt,” Jane tried again, trying to clear the high-pitched nervousness out of her voice. “I'm sorry if we disturbed you, I just . . .”

 

Jane trailed off. The man did not acknowledge her at all, as though he was pretending she wasn't there. Jane frowned in confusion.

 

“He can't see or hear you,” Sephiria told her distractedly, craning her neck to look down the path they had just been on.

 

“What?” Jane demanded, then glanced back at the man. She waved her hand in front of his face, in between his glasses and the paper. No reaction.

 

“He's reading though,” Jane argued, studying him in confusion, “he's obviously not blind.”

 

Sephiria rolled her eyes. “He can't see or hear you because you're an angel now! We are invisible, intangible and silent to humans.”

 

Jane blinked, attempting to formulate a reply, but Sephiria's attention was suddenly monopolized by a man with a cane walking past the bench.

 

“There he is!” Sephiria simpered proudly, practically beaming. “Your new charge! He'll be your principal concern for the foreseeable future.”

 

“An old man with a cane?” Jane demanded, surprised.

 

“He's not old!” Sephiria retorted, upset, “He's thirty-nine, middle aged at worst. He's an army doctor, and a war veteran. His name is-”  


“John!” cried the man on the bench when he caught sight of the passerby, jumping up to get his attention. “John Watson!”

 

The man with the cane, John Watson, turned, revealing a faintly lined face with positively ordinary features. In fact Jane would describe him as 'singularly ordinary.' He wore nondescript clothes in muted colors, was perfectly average in height and build, and his hair was a dull, uninteresting blond, cropped close to his head.

 

_He looks like me,_ Jane thought in mild horror.

 

“Stamford,” continued the man from the bench, holding out his hand, “Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together.”

 

“Yes,” John said, in the middle of Mike's sentence, stumbling through an unenthusiastic greeting and apology for the confusion.

 

“Yeah I know, I got fat,” Mike half laughed, and John waved off his self-deprecation in the usual polite manner. “I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at!” Mike half laughed. “What happened?”

 

Jane felt an odd pang of offense at that. The cane, she felt, should have made it obvious, and by his expression she could clearly see it was a tender subject for John. Well, why wouldn't it be?

 

“I got shot,” he said with a shrug, after a moment's hesitation.

 

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, then got coffee and headed back to the bench, which Sephiria and Jane scrambled to vacate for them. The girls crouched behind the bench, observing in silence, Jane too uncomfortable to speak and Sephiria seeming uninterested, until the conversation turned to what John was doing at the moment. Mike inquired as to whether John was staying in London, and John sighed.

 

“I can't afford London on an army pension,” he pointed out, not looking at his companion.

 

“And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else,” Mike goaded, seemingly unaware of John's discomfort. “That's not the John Watson I know.”

 

“I'm not the John Watson you . . .” he muttered lowly, catching himself before completing the sentence. He flexed his fingers in his lap in agitation.

 

“Couldn't Harry help?” Mike inquired, and Jane started at the mention of her brother's name. Apparently John new someone by that name as well. 

 

“Yeah, like that's gonna happen,” John replied, surprising Jane further. Not only did he know someone named Harry, but he didn't get on with them either! Apparently she and John had more in common than she'd thought. Harry, the poor relationship, London, medicine . . .

 

And a deep dissatisfaction with their lives.

 

“I don't know,” Mike continued, obviously trying to be helpful, “get a flat-share or something?”

 

“Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?” John protested idly, but Mike chuckled. “What?” he asked, nonplussed, but Mike just continued laughing softly.

 

“You're the second person to say that to me today.”

 

“Who was the first?” Jane asked, turning to Sephiria, just as John made the same inquiry of Mike.

 

The only answer Jane got was a sly grin. “Come on,” Sephiria said, seizing Jane's hand again and dragging her away, “we'll head them off.”

 

That was how Jane found herself in a lab. They entered down through the ceiling, which made Jane's head spin and her body jolt when at last she was set down on the solid floor, and by the time she had reoriented herself she was standing across a table from Sephiria. She was standing beside a tall, pale man with curly dark hair, who was leaning over the table examining something.

 

“Who's this then?” Jane asked, clutching her head and trying to fight down the wave of nausea that rose in protest to all the fluctuations in altitude.

 

“My principal,” Sephiria said dreamily, staring at the man in obvious adoration. He was . . . oddly pretty for a man, Jane thought, tall and slim and almost feminine. His hands were delicate but steady, his skin was pale and smooth, and his hair was glossy and looked soft.

 

“His name is Sherlock,” Sephiria cooed.

 

“So, him and John, they're the 'special people' you were talking about?” Jane asked, trying to get some more sense of the situation than she'd been allowed so far.

 

“Indeed,” said Sephiria, toying with the ends of Sherlock's hair lovingly.

 

“How are they special, exactly?” Jane asked. “What could they need guardian angels for? I mean, John was a soldier, but he's not anymore, he's not in any kind of danger or in need of any help. And Sherlock, what's he, some kind of scientist? What could he need help for, and for that matter what kind of _help_ are we supposed to give?”

 

“He's a detective,” Sephiria corrected, “he needs my help to solve crimes and catch criminals. Dangerous work, you know.” She waved her hand over whatever he was doing, something scientific looking with chemicals in wells, and something Jane couldn't detect the relevance of made him gasp and then grin.

 

“Shouldn't he be in a crime lab then?” Jane asked. The other questions went ignored.

 

“He doesn't bother with the police,” Sephiria dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “They're irrelevant, and incompetent anyway. We made proper idiots of them at the press conference, didn't we darling?”

 

The last comment was addressed to her charge, and she draped her arms around his shoulders in a way that Jane was sure he must feel on some level, nuzzling his hair affectionately.

 

“What did you do exactly?” Jane asked, trying not to be disturbed by Sephiria's cooing.

 

“He sent the reporters texts correcting the facts the DI got wrong, which was all of them of course,” Sephiria preened slightly. 

 

Jane frowned. “Why would reporters answer text messages during a press conference? For that matter why would they have their phones on during a press conference?”

 

“Well I might have attached a little,” Sephiria wiggled her fingers, “ _something_ to the text to make it jolt their phones awake and grab their interest.”

 

“And how did he know what was going on inside a press conference from somewhere he could text without being noticed?” Jane demanded.

 

“That,” Sephiria twinkled, “is my little secret.”

 

She cast an almost sultry smile in Sherlock's direction. “He needs me for stunts like that, you know, and he's very fond of them.”

 

Jane was spared having to think of a response to that by the entrance of Mike and John. Sherlock glanced up at their entrance but didn't say anything, and Sephiria disentangled herself to stand beside Jane.

 

“Bit different from my day,” John remarked, looking around at the room full of electronics with minimal interest.

 

“You've no idea,” Mike laughed, eying the room's previous occupant almost expectantly.

 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” Sephiria's detective interrupted them in a surprisingly deep baritone, paying no attention to their chatter. “There's no signal on mine.”

 

“And what's wrong with the land-line?”

 

“I prefer to text.”

 

“Sorry, its in my coat,” Mike told him, holding up his hands as though to display their vacancy.

 

John looked between the two of them as they spoke, and when Sherlock went back to his work with an exasperated sigh he pulled out his own mobile. “Here, use mine,” he said, holding it out.

 

Immediately a pair of keen eyes were fixed on him as though in surprise. Sherlock darted a quick look between John and Mike, and then up and down John's figure in a split second, as though trying to gauge the situation, before starting towards John with a cautious “Thank you.” 

 

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike introduced as Sherlock accepted the offered device. Immediately he began typing away on it.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked in a low voice, his attention still on the phone.

 

Mike grinned, and Jane blinked in surprise. Sephiria beamed. “Watch this,” she said, eyes fixed on her detective with obvious anticipation. “He's going to show us how brilliant he is.”

 

“Sorry?” John asked after a moment.

 

“Which was it,” he finished his text and turned his head to pierce John with intense blue eyes. “Afghanistan of Iraq?”

 

John looked at Mike, who merely smiled. “Afghanistan,” he answered, “Sorry, how did you-”

 

“Ah Molly!” Sherlock cut him off as a mousy woman in a lab coat entered, carrying a coffee cup. “Coffee, thank you.”

 

Sephiria pouted as Sherlock asked Molly something about her lipstick. “Just wait a minute, he'll show you.”

 

“Show me what?” Jane asked, watching as the detective continued his odd interrogation. Molly obviously fancied him terribly, and Jane couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for her at his sharp tone.

 

“His deductions,” Sephiria gritted out, glaring daggers at Molly. “Damn her and her stupid crush! She's always getting in the way. I'll have to talk to Evander about her. This has to stop now that John's here.”

 

That got Jane's attention. “What?!” she demanded, staring at Sephiria in alarm. “What _exactly_ do you mean by that?!”

 

Sephiria waved a hand, and Sherlock's rather callous comments about Molly's makeup ceased. In fact all activity in the room ceased, down to the very shifting of the air, but before Jane could stop to marvel at this Sephiria was already speaking.

 

“I mean that I brought John here to help Sherlock, to care for him in the ways I can't,” Sephiria said, in a calmer but still sour voice. “That might include in bed, I haven't decided yet, but the point is the position is not open for application from the general public.”

 

Jane gaped. “Uh, Sephiria,” she started, unsure of how to answer that. “You know, my brother tells me I have pretty good gay-dar, and he would know after all. And, uh, John isn't really setting it off. In fact he's not. At all.”

 

Sephiria tilted her head to the side, frowning in obvious confusion. “You say that like this information is relevant to me.”

 

Before Jane could protest that statement Sephiria waved her hand again, which seemed to signal for time to restart itself.

 

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked loudly, coolly dismissing Molly and turning back to his work on the table.

 

John glanced at Mike, who grinned again. “Sorry, what?”

 

“I play the violin when I'm thinking,” he continued, apparently ambivalent to John's obvious confusion. “Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

 

John stared at him a moment, then turned to Mike. “You told him about me?” he demanded, bordering on offended.

 

“Not a word,” Mike replied, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

 

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” John asked.

 

“I did,” said the Sherlock, pulling on his coat. “Told him this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan.”

 

He finished with his coat and began knotting a gray scarf around his neck. “Wasn't a difficult leap.”

 

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked, not quite frowning but staring in obvious confusion.

 

Sephiria beamed again. “Now, Jane, watch closely.”

 

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London,” said Sherlock, seeming to completely ignore the question as he made for the door. “Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, 7:00. Sorry, got to dash I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

 

Jane was about to turn to Sephiria and ask what on Earth he'd been doing with a riding crop in a mortuary when John turned to Sherlock instead.

 

“Is that it?” he asked loudly, his tone denoting an attempt to regain control of the situation.

 

Sherlock paused at the door, then turned back to him. “Is that what?” he asked.

 

“We've only just met, and we're going to go and look at a flat,” said John sarcastically.

 

Sherlock glanced at Mike in something like amusement, earning himself another of Mike's grins, which were beginning to make Jane dislike him very much. “Problem?” Sherlock asked.

 

“We don't know a thing about each other,” John began in mild indignation. “I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name.”

 

Jane felt her stomach lurch at the look Sherlock gave John then. It was piercing and analytical, a subtle narrowing of the eyes that betrayed a keen focus and interest. It lasted for only a moment but Jane felt as though it cut John open down the very core, exposing what was inside for Sherlock's unobstructed inspection. Jane felt that she would give a great deal to never, ever, have that look focused on her.

 

“I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with don't you think?”

 

Jane gaped. John shifted uncomfortably. Sephiria sighed dreamily.

 

Sherlock made again for the door, but paused just outside it to look back at John. “The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221 B Baker Street.”

 

He winked, called a quick goodbye to Mike, and then left in a flurry of dark coat.

 

Sephiria pouted. “Usually he does better than that.”

 

***

 

“You must have questions,” Sephiria said once they had started to walk. They had flown back to the school, but Sephiria had set them down on the edge of campus so that they could walk back to the dormitory. Jane was silently grateful for this, needing to stand on her own two feet as she gathered her thoughts.

 

Jane considered for a moment. She did, in fact, have questions, what seemed to be hundreds of them, but every time she opened her mouth five or six would bubble up to the surface until the sentence that tried to come out made no sense at all.

 

“Can people see us now?” Jane inquired as someone she knew from a class waved to her as she passed.

 

“Well I told you that you could return to life,” Sephiria reminded her, “and that includes this life as well. Call helping me a part-time job, if you like, so you can still go to school and visit your family and do all the boring mortal stuff you want. You can go back and forth between visible and invisible.”

 

That made Jane pause. “Wait, do you mean I could have become visible while we were watching John?! That I could become visible at any time!”

 

“Not as long as you stay close to me,” Sephiria assured her in a bored voice, “don't worry, you'll get the hang of it soon.”

 

Jane passed a hand over her eyes, wondering how long it would take Sephiria to give her a heart attack. Judging by the current trajectory, she wouldn't last graduation.

 

“So, one thing you haven't exactly made clear is what this part-time job is _for._ What exactly am I supposed to be helping with? I mean, what does an angel do anyway?” she paused. “Besides enchanting text messages that is.”

 

“It really is better to show you, hands-on experience and all that,” Sephiria told her lightly, “but mostly what we're here for is just to make things run smoothly for our charges. We see that they don't trip over their own feet, human error doesn't mess up their work, they see what they need to see and find what they need to find. Then of course there's things like making sure they don't get shot, debris falls conveniently around them, explosions just sort of miss them-”

 

“A lot of explosions happen around Sherlock?” Jane cut her off, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

 

Sephiria glanced up at her. “No not really,” she said, a little too quickly at the sight of Jane's face. “I mean, sometimes, but its not like it could hurt one of us. You shouldn't worry too much about it.”

 

_I don't see how I could_ not _worry about it,_ Jane thought in exasperation.

 

Silence reigned for a moment, until Sephiria glanced in Jane's direction. “Is that it then?” she asked, “Curiosity abated? Found out all you needed to know?”

 

Jane bit her lip, thinking. “Is it wrong that he scares me?” she asked quietly. “Sherlock, I mean.”

 

“I know what you meant,” Sephiria replied, looking straight ahead rather than at Jane. “No, it isn't wrong, or strange. It just means you're smart.”

 

“What do you mean by that?” Jane asked, and was surprised when Sephiria fell silent for a moment.

 

“You're a doujinka,” she began slowly, “an amateur graphic novelist. You're an artist, which means you're creative, but you have enough of a head for science to be a med student. Oh don't give me that look,” she groaned at Jane's horrified expression, “I didn't deduce all that, I've been watching you for a while.”

 

“You've been watching me?!” Jane demanded, feeling rather violated, but Sephiria waved her off.

 

“That's not the point,” she said, “the point is that the combination of intelligence and open-mindedness that you possess has made you able to recognize things for what they are in a way most people can't. Your thinking is both grand-scale and logical. You're able to think about the big questions without over-analyzing or romanticizing.”

 

Sephiria paused, looking back at Jane's transfixed expression with a serious one of her own. “You understand that knowledge is power in a way most people never think to consider. When you look at it that way, Sherlock is able to gather knowledge at a rate which is truly frightening. If you think about it that way, he's intensely powerful, and intensely dangerous.”

 

“If you think about it that way Sherlock must be the most powerful man in the world,” Jane mused, trying to stop the sinking feeling in her stomach.

 

“No he's not,” Sephiria said, almost wistfully, “but he could be if he wanted to.”

 

They reached the dormitory building, and Sephiria stopped walking. “I'd better get back to Sherlock,” she said, “I'll come for you tomorrow around 6:30, and we can go meet the boys at the flat. We'll talk more then.”

 

And with that, before Jane could protest, two great black-feathered wings erupted from Sephiria's back and bore her away into the sky.

 

Jane checked her watch. She'd already missed her 8:30 class, so she might as well go and have an early lunch before her 1:00.

 

***

 

The next day passed in something of a haze. Jane couldn't stop herself from wondering if perhaps Sephiria, Sherlock and John had all been a very bizarre dream, or perhaps some kind of hallucination. The sheer amount of drugs that seemed to be being used in the dorms, sending odd colored smoke with properties of god-knows-what to permeated the air, certainly allowed for either one. Wondering about the whole thing made it very difficult to take notes.

 

The hour of 6:25 found Jane in her room, pacing the floor and glancing at her watch every couple of seconds. Her stomach was tied in knots. What if Sephiria didn't show? What if it all was a dream? Was she being foolish by waiting? What else could she do?

 

These thoughts, however, were simply the only worries she would allow herself. She refused to wonder if Sephiria had been unimpressed with her yesterday and would not come back because of it. If she had been supposed to be doing something in Sephiria's absence that she hadn't done, and now some horrible fate would befall Sherlock or John because of it, or worse, Sephiria would decide she was unworthy because of it. If some grievous mistake had been made, and now the adventure of a lifetime would flutter away on the breeze.

 

She had to stop being so melodramatic. She hadn't even decided if she wanted to do this yet, not that it seemed she was being given a choice.

 

Frustrated that the last time check revealed no dramatic leap forward Jane glanced at the mirror. If there _was_ something she was supposed to do, she reasoned, then it was probably some kind of practice. Maybe she was meant to try becoming invisible? Sephiria had said she couldn't fly yet, so it seemed the most logical step. She stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself. She tried to concentrate on disappearing, on watching her hands vanish, then up her arms, until finally nothing was reflected in the glass at all. Nothing happened. She screwed up her face, squinting hard at the mirror as she willed herself to becoming invisible.

 

“What _are_ you doing?” demanded a voice from the window. Jane turned around, startled, to see Sephiria leaning back on the window ledge, staring at her in open confusion.

 

“Um, I-” she started, but Sephiria cut her off with a raised hand.

 

“I don't want to hear it,” she said in exasperation, “just come on, Sherlock's on his way to Baker Street and I want to head them off.”

 

They didn't fly down through the ceiling this time, which Jane was grateful for. Sephiria said that she had to know what it looked like from the front, but Jane was just glad she didn't have to pass through any more solid matter. This dream was dashed however when Sephiria, rather than opening the door, simply walked right through it like she had the day before in Jane's room. Jane paused behind her. She'd never done this without Sephiria's help before, and she'd utterly failed at becoming invisible at will, as far as she could tell. She put up a hand and held it just before the wood, wondering what would happen if she pushed it forward.

 

Suddenly Sephiria's hand shot through the door and seized Jane's wrist, pulling her forward with an annoyed, “Come _on,_ Jane!”

 

The flat was reasonably nice, but piled high with stacks of what appeared to be the rubbish cleaned out of a professor's attic. “Who are they renting from?” Jane asked in mild curiosity.

 

“A nice if rather batty woman named Mrs. Hudson,” Sephiria explained, looking around the room with interest, “Sherlock saw that her husband was executed some time ago. Horrible man, she's well rid of him.”

 

Jane was about to ask what the charges had been when Sephiria's wings unfurled suddenly. Jane let out a little shriek and ducked to the floor, but they somehow managed to avoid knocking anything over, and with one great flap Sephiria was perched on the back of one of the sitting room chairs. Jane stared. The chair looked as though it should tip over, but somehow stayed upright despite the impossible weight distribution.

 

“You'd better find yourself a perch,” Sephiria told her, folding her wings in so that they faded into her back. “If you're just standing there someone's liable to walk through you, which can be rather uncomfortable. The mantle ought to do.”  


“How do I get up there though?” Jane asked, contemplating the height of the mantlepiece.

 

“The same way I did, obviously,” Sephiria huffed.

 

“No, not 'obviously'!” Jane shot back. “I haven't got wings, you said I couldn't fly yet.”

 

“You can't fly yet,” Sephiria agreed, “not like I can anyway, but you do have wings, and they will lift you – some. Just concentrate on the feeling in your shoulder blades.”

 

Jane complied, rolling her shoulders to get a sense of the spot Sephiria instructed. At first nothing happened, and she flexed the muscles in her back as best she could, but after a moment there was a tingling sensation which grew into an odd stretching, until at last she felt her shoulder blades contorting, spreading outwards from her back and prickling with the sudden growth of downy brown feathers. Jane twitched and wriggled, trying to get used to the sensation. Her wings did not stretch as far as Sephiria's, she doubted that they would exceed the length of her outstretched arms, but she didn't dare try and find out. It was odd how fast she got used to moving them, finding that a motion like thrusting her shoulders back made them go backwards, and what felt like hunching her shoulders made them draw in. It took a moment to learn how to do it fast enough, but eventually the movement became clumsy flaps that propelled her into the air. She was sure the mantlepiece couldn't hold her weight, but the intangibility seemed to carry over into weightlessness, and somehow she found herself perched quite stably, facing the room.

 

“See?” Sephiria asked, smirking, “Not too hard, eh?”

 

The door opened and Sherlock and John entered, along with an aged but kindly looking woman who Jane presumed to be Mrs. Hudson. John looked around critically.

 

“Well this could be very nice,” he said approvingly, “very nice indeed.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, somewhat more eagerly than Jane would have anticipated. “Yes I think so. My thoughts precisely.”

 

“Just as soon as we get this rubbish cleaned out,” said John, just as Sherlock finished, “So I just went ahead and moved in.”

 

Jane failed to suppress a giggle.

 

They stared at each other. “Oh.”

 

“So this is all . . .” John trailed off as Sherlock darted to the nearest pile and began a vain attempt to organize it.

 

“Well obviously I can straighten things up-” he picked up a few pieces of paper and an oddly out of place knife then, to Jane's utter horror, made for the mantlepiece. He slammed the papers down and raised the blade, and with a little shriek Jane dived to the side, landing in a heap on the floor.

 

Sherlock stabbed the knife into the papers, pinning them to the wood. “-a bit,” he finished.

 

“Are you alright?” Sephiria asked as Jane sat woozily upright, somehow managing to sound entirely interested and supremely unconcerned at the same time. Some deep recess of Jane's mind resolved to ask her how she did that.

 

“No!” the forefront of her mind made her practically scream, “Your charge just came at me with a knife!”

 

“He didn't know you were there,” Sephiria defended lightly.

 

“That's a skull,” John observed, pointing at the mantle with his cane. Jane looked, and indeed there was a skull that she had somehow failed to notice, inches from where she had been crouching.

 

“Why?” she mouthed at Sephiria in horror.

 

“Just speak normally, they can't hear us,” Sephiria chided gently.

 

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock mumbled, then paused. “When I say friend, I . . .” he trailed off.

 

“What do you think then, Dr. Watson?” asked Mrs. Hudson as Jane got to her feet and endeavored to put as much space between herself and Sherlock as she could. She settled for standing by the far window. “There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms.”

 

“Of course we'll be needing two,” said John, somewhat confused.

 

“Leave him alone!” Jane snapped at Sephiria's lascivious grin.

 

“Experiencing a bit of a Doctor crush?” Sephiria asked mischievously.

 

“No,” Jane retorted as Mrs. Hudson offered misplaced reassurances, “and he's not my Doctor. But that doesn't make him your plaything, or Sherlock's for that matter!”

 

John settled himself in one of the chairs, thankfully not the one Sephiria was also occupying, and Sherlock got out his laptop while Mrs. Hudson departed for the kitchen. “I looked you up on the internet last night,” John told Sherlock, a little too serious to be conversational.

 

“Anything interesting?” Sherlock asked, a little too interested to be conversational.

 

“Found your website, the Science of Deduction.”

 

“You mentioned deductions yesterday,” Jane looked at Sephiria, who simply rolled her eyes.

 

“Well you didn't think he was a psychic did you?” she asked in annoyance.

 

“Of course not,” Jane said sarcastically, “'cause that would be impossible.”

 

“What did you think?” Sherlock asked, grinning, but frowned at John's skeptical look.

 

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, and suddenly Jane decided that his voice was far too sultry, and hoped that it was just because of how deep it was. His eyes, however, held interest, a deep interest that kept them focused unblinkingly on John.

 

“And I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

 

“How?”

 

_Excellent question._

 

It went unanswered however, as Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to return from the kitchen. “What about these suicides then, Sherlock?” she asked, looking over a newspaper as she spoke.

 

“Why would he know anything about suicides?” Jane asked, glancing at Sephiria.

 

“They're not suicides,” Sephiria said quickly, not taking her eyes from her charge, “they're murders that have been made to look like suicides. All in good time, Jane.”

 

“I thought that'd be right up your street,” Mrs. Hudson continued, “three exactly the same.”

 

Sherlock, however, was looking out the window. “Four,” he corrected, “there's been a fourth, and there's something different this time.”

 

“Sephiria!” Jane hissed, looking out the other window, “there's a police car outside!”

 

“Yes!” Sephiria cheered, turning to look at the door. “I knew Evander would come through for this one!”

 

Jane remembered the name from yesterday too, but before she could ask a man with graying hair came bounding up the stairs to stride through the open door to the flat.

 

“Where?” Sherlock demanded immediately.

 

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” he replied breathlessly, apparently unperturbed by Sherlock's sharpness.

 

“What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different.”

 

“You know how they never leave notes?” the man asked.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“This one did. Will you come?”

 

Sherlock paused. “Who's on forensics?”

 

“Anderson.”

 

Sherlock turned away, his expression agitated. “Anderson won't work with me.”

 

“Well he won't be your assistant,” the stranger argued, annoyed but obviously nervous. He didn't like the delay, Jane realized. He didn't like not knowing if Sherlock would come with him.

 

“I need an assistant,” Sherlock snapped.

 

“Will you come?” the man repeated, just this side of desperate.

 

“Not in a police car.” Sherlock told him. “I'll be right behind.”

 

Sherlock looked indifferently out the window as the man said his thanks, nodded to John and Mrs. Hudson and turned to go, but once his feet could be heard on the stairs Sherlock's face spread into a blinding smile, and once the door closed he turned and gave a great whoop, literally jumping for joy.

 

“Brilliant! Yes!” he cried, spinning about the room in overwhelmed excitement. “Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, its Christmas!”

 

“I thought Sherlock didn't work with the police,” Jane frowned as the detective dashed about saying his goodbyes.

 

“He doesn't,” Sephiria said disdainfully, “but he's got to get a look at the crime scenes somehow. Evander and I have an arrangement.”

 

“Who's Evander?” Jane asked, watching Sherlock frantically dress himself to go out.

 

“That was DI Lestrade,” Sephiria told her, gesturing at the door as she got down from her perch, “Evander is his guardian angel.”

 

“You mean there are more of you?” Jane asked, surprised, then immediately grimaced as she realized how stupid that must have sounded.

 

Sephiria gave her a look. “Of course there are,” she said, “far too many of them working for Scotland Yard if you ask me, but I don't bother with most of them. Evander's the only one that works with me.”

 

“Why are you getting down?” Jane asked as Sherlock left, slamming the door behind him. “Are we going after him?”

 

“Not yet,” Sephiria replied idly, “he'll be back in a minute.”

 

“Why?” Jane asked.

 

Sephiria grinned. “He's got to get John to come with him, of course.”

 

“John hasn't got the energy to go running around London at that pace,” Jane protested, recalling Sherlock's speed.

 

John, however, chose that moment to reply to a completely innocuous comment by Mrs. Hudson by yelling “DAMN MY LEG!” at the top of his lungs, startling Jane so much she almost fell over again. He immediately began apologizing profusely as Jane clutched at her heart and Sephiria giggled.

 

“He's got more energy than you think,” Sephiria observed, beaming.

 

John began looking at the paper as Mrs. Hudson went into the kitchen to make tea. After a moment, however, Sherlock's voice emanated from the doorway, deep and full of interest.

 

“You're a doctor,” he said, words dripping with intriguing speculation, “in fact you're an army doctor.”

 

“Yes,” said John, standing to stare at Sherlock warily.

 

“Any good?” Sherlock asked, as though in challenge.

 

“Very good,” said John resolutely, meeting Sherlock's piercing gaze. It wasn't an answer, it was a statement.

 

“Seen a lot of injuries then?” Sherlock asked mock casually as he pulled on his gloves, obviously still intending to go out. He advanced on John. “Violent deaths?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Bit of trouble too, I bet?” he said. It was no longer really a question. He was standing directly in front of John now. The challenge was no longer implicit.

 

John stood his ground. “Of course, yes,” he replied. “Enough for a lifetime, far too much.”

 

“Want to see some more?”

 

Before John could answer Sephiria waved a hand, and time in the room came to a complete stop. She looked over at Jane. “Well?” she asked.

 

Jane blinked. “Well what?”

 

“Is he going to see some more?” Sephiria clarified, one eyebrow raised. “The choice is yours.”

 

“Why mine?” Jane asked, taking a step back. Sephiria crossed to the window, leaving Jane standing between her and the boys.

 

“Because John needs you,” Sephiria told her, one foot braced on the bottom of the window, clearly ready to take off out of it. “Sherlock needs an assistant and so do I. Looking after him is a full time job, I won't take on another charge without someone to help me. Sherlock is my principal, the charge I care the most about, and I'll protect him first, every time. I need someone to look after John, or something bad _will_ inevitably happen.”

 

“Why are you even asking?” Jane demanded. “It isn't as if you gave me a lot of choice before.”

 

Sephiria shrugged. “Couldn't let you decide without all the facts, now could I? Now you've met John and Sherlock, and you know what's going on. You've seen what kind of person the good doctor is, how _brilliant_ my principal is, and you've got a better understanding of what's being asked of you. I can't, however, make you do anything you don't want to. The choice has always been yours.” Sephiria tilted her head to the side, a grin playing around her mouth and her eyes alight with an almost knowing excitement.

 

“So, what'll it be then?”

 

Jane glanced at John, and in that moment her heart went out to him. He had been dragged into this whole affair in a much similar matter to herself, given hardly any choice or time to think things through. He'd been bullied by Sherlock, manipulated by Sephiria, and he would continue to be pushed around by the two of them without someone to look after him and put his best interests first. Jane decided in that moment that she would let _him_ decide, let him be both her will and her caution. She waved a hand as she'd seen Sephiria do, and time, as she had hoped, restarted itself.

 

“Oh God, yes,” John replied, as soon as the words had left Sherlock's mouth.

 

Caution, apparently, was for suckers.

 

Jane seized Sephiria's hand, and together they leaped out the window as John and Sherlock dashed for the door.

 

They circled once, then landed on the roof of the taxi that Sherlock hailed as soon as he and John were outside.

 

“We're not going to fly?” Jane asked as she folded herself into a sitting position. It was surprising how easy it was to keep her balance, indeed it seemed impossible that she could fall.

 

“We travel as they do,” Sephiria explained. “Its easier this way. When you have to fly you'll understand the blessing of a taxi.” She perched herself on the side of the car that Sherlock had taken, Jane sitting above John's side. She barely felt when the car started, bearing four passengers rather than the usual two into the darkening night.

 

_Wait, night?_

 

“Wait a minute, wasn't it daylight a moment ago?” Jane protested, looking around at the starry sky and the lit streetlamps.

 

“Yes, but I sped things up a bit,” Sephirira told her dismissively. “A murder is best investigated in the dark.”

 

“You can speed up time?!”

 

“And slow it down, as I believe I already demonstrated,” Sephiria replied, raising an eyebrow again. “Don't worry, they didn't notice. For now let's listen in.”

 

Sephiria shifted so her body lay flat against the hood of the car and let her head dangle over the side to look in Sherlock's window. Jane copied her, marveling at how different the experience was from the expectation. She had though she'd be terrified of losing her balance and toppling over into the road, an indeed she was for a moment, but as soon as she stopped moving she found she was once again balanced perfectly. Dangling her head over the side didn't seem to make all the blood rush to it, and while the wind did blow at her hair and roar in her ears she found she could hear what was going on inside the cab perfectly.

 

After a a stretch of silence in which Sherlock played with his phone and John tried to watch him inconspicuously and failed, Sherlock spoke. “Okay, you've got questions?”

 

“Yeah, where are we going?” asked John immediately, not even trying to mask his curiosity.

 

Sherlock gave him a look that bordered on patronizing. “Crime scene, next?”

 

John paused a moment, considering. “Who are you? What do you do?”

 

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked, bored.

 

“I'd say Private Detective . . .”  


“But?”

 

“But the police don't go to Private Detectives.”

 

Sherlock's face broke into a smile. “I'm a Consulting Detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job.”

 

“What does that mean?” John asked, almost before Sherlock could finish. Jane couldn't help but smile at him slightly, even though she knew he couldn't see it. He obviously wasn't backing down, and now it seemed they would both get some answers.

 

Sherlock drew a breath. “It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

 

“The police don't consult amateurs,” John protested, half laughing.

 

This seemed to have been the wrong thing to say. Sherlock turned to look at John briefly in something like disappointment, then turned away again and began to speak in his low, determined voice.

 

“When I met you for the first time yesterday I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you looked surprised.”

 

“Yes how did you know-”

 

“I didn't know I saw,” Sherlock corrected, obviously not pleased at the interruption. “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military, and the conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists, you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so its at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq.”

 

“Does he always talk so bloody quickly,” Jane whispered to herself, staring at Sherlock in open fascination.

 

“When he has something important to say,” Sephiria replied, and Jane was startled to realize she could hear the other angel just as well as the two men. Sephiria's eyes were glued to Sherlock, full of nothing but complete adoration.

 

“You said I had a therapist,” John said softly, obviously choking down shock.

 

“You've got a psychosomatic limp of course you've got a therapist,” Sherlock grumbled in reply.

 

“Then there's your brother.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Your phone. Its expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, and you're looking for a flat-share you wouldn't waste money on this; its a gift then. Scratches- not one, many over time- its been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so its had a previous owner. Next bit's easy you know it already.”

 

“The engraving,” John said, as Sherlock tilted the phone to show it to him, and by extension Jane and Sephiria. 

 

“Harry Watson- clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father this is a young man's gadget, could be a cousin but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live its unlike you've got an extended family certainly not one your close to, so brother it is. Now Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment the expensive of the phone says wife not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently this model's only six months old, marriage in trouble then, six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him he would have kept it, people do, sentiment, but no he wanted rid of it, he left her. He gave the phone to you that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help, that says you've got problems with him, maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking.”

 

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?” John asked slowly as Sephiria withdrew to the roof of the car. Jane started up, thinking she wanted to talk, but when Sephiria simply reclined in what looked for all the world like post-coital bliss Jane leaned down again to hear the rest of the explanation. That did at least clarify why Sephiria was so eager to manage Sherlock's love life.

 

Sherlock smirked. “Shot in the dark. Good one though. Power connection, tiny little scuff-marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone never see a drunk's without them.”

 

Sherlock handed the phone back to John. “There you go, see, you were right.”

 

“ _I_ was right?” repeated John incredulously, “Right about what?”

 

Sherlock stared out the window. “The police don't consult amateurs.”

 

There was silence for a long moment. Sherlock continued to face the window, but his expression would not support his feigned indifference. He wanted to know what John would say. To be fair, Jane wanted to know too.

 

“That . . . was amazing.” John did not look at Sherlock while he said it, but rather down at his shoes, then immediately out the window. Jane could see the odd mix of awe and discomfort masked by pride as he refused to look Sherlock in the eye.

 

Sherlock, for his part, seemed incapable of doing anything but darting disbelieving looks at John for a couple of moments. “Do you think so?” he said at last, as though unwilling to believe his ears despite the obvious faith he displayed in his eyes.

 

“Yes of course it was,” said John immediately, still unable to look at his companion, “Extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary.”

 

“That's not what people normally say,” Sherlock replied, eyes down, unable to keep the self-consciousness out of his voice.

 

“What do people normally say?” John asked.

 

Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile. “Piss off.”

 

Both men smiled out their respective windows, and Jane pulled herself up on top of the taxi with Sephiria. 

 

“Well,” she said, combing her fingers through her windswept hair, “you certainly seem to know what you're doing.”

 

Sephiria grinned, still luxuriating in whatever high she had gained from Sherlock's deductions. “The odds of two people so ideally suited to each other meeting by completely coincidence? Less than zero. An angel is always behind partnerships like this.”

 

A thought struck Jane, a truly awful thought, but Sephiria seemed to read it in her face before she could voice it. “I didn't get John injured,” she said seriously, sitting up at last. “I looked among army doctors who'd come home, including invalids, that's how I found him. I looked other places too, of course, but John was the very best I could find.”

 

“And why did you choose me?” Jane asked softly. She pulled her knees up to her chest, almost forgetting that she was sitting on top of a taxi speeding toward the scene of a murder. This was a question she'd been wanting to ask since the White Space. Sephiria touched her shoulder, and somehow she felt it more than the wind or the cold or the dull ache in her back from leaning over for so long. 

 

“I chose you because . . . well, because you're like John.”

 

“Why?” Jane asked, feeling very small. “Because I'm a medical student? Because I have a brother named Harry that I don't get on with? Because we have the same bloody initials?”

 

Sephiria tugged at her shoulder, turning Jane to look at her. Jane looked up, and was met with the same piercing gaze that bared souls and missed nothing that she had seen at their first meeting. “Because you know what its like to have the life you wanted torn away from you.”

 

The taxi pulled to a stop, and Jane let out a shaky breath as she watched John and Sherlock exit and clambered down after them.

 

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, in his best imitation of 'conversational' yet, as they walked towards what looked like a very old house on a very old street, the entrance of which was blocked by crime scene tape and a few police cars.

 

“Harry and me don't get on, never have,” John confirmed as he limped along beside Sherlock, leaning perhaps a little less heavily on his cane than before. “Clara and Harry split up three months ago, they're getting a divorce. Harry is a drinker.”

 

“Spot on then,” said Sherlock with interest, “I didn't expect to be right about everything.”

 

“Harry is short for Harriet.”

 

“Harriet?” Jane asked, glancing at Sephiria as they trailed behind the boys. “So, its his sister then?”

 

“You don't know everything about John yet,” Sephiria chided as Sherlock berated himself for his mistake and John began to wonder aloud as to the point of his presence.

 

They were stopped at the first line of tape by a dark-skinned young woman with shoulder-length, frizzy black hair, an upturned nose and a sour expression. “Sally Donovan too,” Sephiria grumbled, “Damn, that means Quinn can't be far.”

 

“Hello freak,” the woman, Sally, greeted Sherlock bitingly, coming to stand pointedly in his way.

 

“I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock dismissed her, but stopped walking when she didn't move.

 

“Why?” she demanded. Jane decided that she did not like Sally Donovan much.

 

“I was invited,” he replied. By the look he gave her Jane speculated that Sherlock did not like Sally Donovan much either.

 

“Why?” she repeated.

 

“I think he wants me to take a look,” said Sherlock sarcastically.

 

“Well you know what I think don't you,” she sneered, even as Sherlock lifted up the tape.

 

“Always Sally,” he said, then frowned and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Even though you didn't make it home last night.”

 

Just as Sally was demanding to know who John was another woman, much younger than her, perhaps Jane's age, came up behind her to stand in their way as well. The newcomer was obviously not with the police. She wore a neat white dress that stopped just below her knees and what looked like a pair of silk slippers, with a string of green glass beads around her neck. Her hair was vibrant blond pulled back in a ponytail with a pink ribbon, and her eyes were blue, currently dark with annoyance. A charm bracelet glittered at her left wrist. Jane frowned, staring at it. It was a very odd charm bracelet; all the charms were small silver discs, like the pendant on Sephiria's necklace.

 

“What are you doing on my crime scene Hart?” she demanded through gritted teeth. “And who's the wingling?”

 

“She can see us?” Jane asked quietly, looking from her to Sephiria.

 

“Quinn, always a pleasure,” Sephiria beamed. “Yes Jane, she can see us. She's an angel, or what passes for one in Scotland Yard. Quinn, this is Jane, she's with me.”

 

“And what are you _doing here!_ ” Quinn repeated, fists clenched.

 

“Keeping after my charge, obviously.” Sephiria replied nodding to Sherlock. Sally resignedly let Sherlock and John through.

 

“You wouldn't know how to keep to a charge if you were handcuffed to them,” Quinn bit out as Sephiria and Jane followed the boys towards the entrance. Sherlock and John were stopped again, however, just short of the door, this time by an intensely sour looking man with greasy dark hair who Sherlock addressed as Anderson. Quinn came again to stand in front of them.

 

“Oh yes,” Sephiria agreed sarcastically, “we all know the best way to manage charges is to make any two that come into your care fuck each other.”

 

Sephiria glanced at Sherlock, who was just asking Anderson if his wife would be away for long.

 

“Oh don't pretend you worked that out,” Anderson spat, “Somebody told you that.”

 

“Your deodorant told me that,” said Sherlock, looking away as though bored with the exchange.

 

“My deodorant?” Anderson echoed disbelievingly, Sally mirroring the look several steps behind him by the door.

 

“It's for men!” Sherlock said condescendingly.

 

“Well of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!” Anderson protested angrily.

 

“So's Sargent Donovan.”

 

Sephiria beamed at Sherlock's comment, and Quinn glowered. “Not something I would expect you to understand, Hart, but love makes us stronger, not weaker.”

 

“Of course,” Sephiria simpered as Sherlock closed his analysis and led John inside. “ _Adulterium vincit omnia_ , after all.”

 

Sherlock paused again once they were inside, this time to speak briefly with DI Lestrade. Sephiria however bypassed him completely in favor of heading swiftly up a long spiral staircase. The entire house seemed to be covered in a fine layer of dust, and Jane was surprised to find that the stairs did not squeak at all under her weight. Then she reminded herself that, being intangible at the moment, she probably wasn't _putting_ any weight on them.

 

The room they came to appeared to be the attic, and was devoid of anything except two people, some lights obviously brought in by the police, and a lot of dust. The aging wallpaper was peeling and the walls themselves seemed to be deteriorating; a gap to Jane's left could have been climbed through into the next room. Across from them, staring at a point in the middle of the floor, was a young man, like Quinn and Sephiria about Jane's age. He was short for a boy, with olive skin and scruffy brown hair that stuck out at odd angles. He was wearing blue jeans and black boots, with a blue denim jacket tossed over a plain white shirt. Large dark eyes flicked immediately to Sephiria when they entered, then back to the center of the room.

 

Holding his attention was a woman in a pink raincoat and pink high heels, face down on the floor.

 

She was obviously dead.

 

“I've never seen a dead body before,” Jane whispered, unsure why she felt the need to say it.

 

The boy gave her a sympathetic look, but Sephiria ignored her confession altogether. “Jane this is Evander,” she said offhandedly, already studying the body. “Evander, Jane.”

 

“Hi,” he said, waving nervously. Sephiria left Jane's side and crouched over the body, beginning to examine it closely. Her fingers flicked dexterously over the woman's form, feeling along her skin, parting her hair, craning over to examine her face.

 

Evander beckoned to Jane and she immediately went to stand beside him, realizing she'd been in the way of the door, where she would certainly have been walked through. “Its best not to disturb her,” he whispered without taking his eyes off Sephiria. “We only have a few minutes until they're up here.”

 

“What's she looking for?” Jane asked quietly.

 

“Points of interest,” Evander explained. “She's choosing where Sherlock's eyes should go first. She's finding things like scratches, bumps, smeared make-up, important things that it might take some time to find otherwise.”

 

“But he can do that himself can't he?” Jane protested, frowning in confusion. “She never did that before, and he managed to figure out more about John than I know!”

 

Evander shook his head. “Yeah, but we don't have a lot of time. He has to get in and out as fast as possible, with the largest volume of information possible. She's making sure he doesn't have to look for anything she can find for him.”

 

Sephiria examined the woman's left hand, and Jane winced when she saw that the nails, though perfectly manicured, were ragged at the tips from carving a word into the wooden floor; R-A-C-H-E. Sephiria looked at it, eyes narrowing in concentration, then drew an L at the end with her finger. The letter glowed for a moment, then went dull and vanished. She growled in frustration, then tapped the woman's rather ornate wedding ring, which also glowed momentarily, before standing up and coming to stand beside Evander and Jane.

 

“Nothing,” she grumbled, “we'll have to leave it to Sherlock.”

 

“You got the wedding ring,” Evander pointed out encouragingly.

 

“Don't be stupid. There's always something important about the wedding ring.”

 

Lestrade and Sherlock entered, followed closely by John. There was completely silence for a moment as Sherlock's eyes darted about, taking in everything superficial about the corpse and the room.

 

“Shut up,” he ordered Lestrade.

 

“I didn't say anything,” the DI protested.

 

“You were thinking, its annoying.”

 

Sherlock walked in slow, deliberate steps toward the woman's body. His eyes did indeed go first to the word on the floor, but Jane couldn't tell if he could see the letter Sephiria had left him. Suddenly he dropped to his knees, becoming a flurry of activity examining the body.

 

“So,” said Evander conversationally but quietly, turning a little to face Jane, “you're the new wingling, eh?”

 

“What's a 'wingling'?” Jane asked, remembering that Quinn had also called her that.

 

Evander winced and inhaled through his teeth. “Sephiria hasn't explained much to you, has she?”

 

“I've explained enough,” Sephiria snapped, watching Sherlock intently.

 

_Bollocks!_ Jane spat internally.

 

“Have you told her about demons?” Evander demanded, making Jane's stomach drop.

 

“I was building up to it,” Sephiria grumbled.

 

“Got anything?” asked Lestrade, drawing their attention back to Sherlock, who was now standing and pulling off his gloves.

 

He smirked. “Not much.”

 

“She's German,” said a voice from the door. Jane turned to see Anderson leaning on the door frame, looking smug. “ _Rache_ \-- German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us-”

 

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Sherlock cut him off, neatly closing the door in his face. He immediately stopped. In fact everything in the room stopped. Jane inhaled experimentally, noting how quickly she had come to associate this unnatural stillness in the air with time stopping.

 

“Sephiria Hart,” said a voice for which there was really no other word but 'posh.' It emanated from beyond the door, deep and condescending, and was followed soon after by what Jane could only presume to be its owner.

 

The angel who stepped through the door, quickly followed by a very smug looking Quinn, was a perfect match to his voice. He was _posh_ , with delicate creamy skin, perfectly styled blond hair, sharp sky-blue eyes and immaculate clothes. He was slender, and stood taller than all of them, though perhaps seemed taller than he really was due to his deep purple top hat with a sheer green ribbon around it. He wore a white shirt with a green waistcoat beneath a purple jacket, with black trousers and knee-high, lace-up riding boots. He carried an ornate cane with gold inlay and a red jewel at the top, which he immediately set the end of on the floor, folding his white-gloved hands imperiously over the head.

 

_Does everyone who becomes an angel die in University?_ Jane wondered silently.

 

“Tristan!” Evander squeaked, snapping immediately to attention.

 

“Train!” Sephiria simpered sarcastically. “To what do we owe the interruption?”

 

“Have a little respect Hart!” Quinn hissed, furious. “This is the patron saint of Scotland Yard you're talking to!”

 

_Scotland Yard has a patron saint?_

 

Sephiria, however, just rolled her eyes. “Its not enough that you send Madame Eglatine to _every_ interesting crime scene just to get in my hair, now you've got to come and annoy me yourself?”

 

“Outside!” snapped Tristan/Train in his posh voice.

 

“Carry on without me darling,” Sephiria told Sherlock, waving her hand to restart time even as Quinn and Evander left through the closed door. Tristan waited for Jane and Sephiria to exit ahead of him, Sephiria with much straightening of her skirt and harrumphing, before leaving Sherlock to explain his deductions to John and Lestrade.

 

Once outside Sephiria and Tristan stopped and faced each other in front of the house. Quinn stood just behind Tristan to his right, Jane in the same position by Sephiria, and Evander off to one side, as though unsure as to which corner her should be standing in.

 

“This is the last straw, Sephiria,” began Tristan, bracing his cane against the ground the same way he had upstairs. “This blatant disregard of my authority simply will not be permitted. Disciplinary action must be taken.”

 

Sephiria met his icy gaze with one of her own. “I would like to see you try to take disciplinary action against me Train, considering _I am not under your authority!”_

 

“I am the supreme authority behind Scotland Yard,” Tristan insisted.

 

“Sherlock Holmes does not _work_ for Scotland Yard!” Sephiria countered, her voice just below a shout.

 

“Every angel in London is under my jurisdiction,” he hissed. “We have had this argument too many times Sephiria. I am drawing the line. I never believed you _capable_ of this! How did you even _manage_ it!”

 

Sephiria just rolled her eyes again. “Why, whatever do you mean by that?”

 

Tristan's eyes swiveled to fix on Jane. “Your name, young lady?” he asked through clenched teeth.

 

“J-Jane Williams,” she stuttered, after a glance at Sephiria revealed no indication to remain silent.

 

Tristan returned his attention to Sephiria. “Ms. Williams has quite obviously been endowed with all the powers and privileges of a trainee guardian angel. To recruit a new angel requires _my_ permission, you do not have the power to simply pluck a corpse out of the mortuary and give it wings whenever you feel like it!”

 

“And yet, that seems to be exactly what I've done,” Sephiria mused lightly.

 

“The recruitment of all new angels is clearly under my authority!” Tristan half-screamed. “You may be able to get away with a lot, Sephiria, but _this_ is a clear violation of protocol!”

 

Sephiria's lips twitched into a smile. “No matter what you may think, Train, you have no power over me. I don't have to answer to you, nor do I have to ask your permission for anything.”

 

“You are not a free agent, Sephiria Hart,” he snapped, “no one is! There is no such thing as a person, of any status, who operates outside any kind of authority.”

 

“I have been given the _authority_ , as you are so fond of putting it, to do whatever is necessary to take care of my charge. I have deemed an assistant necessary, and taken the appropriate steps. ”

 

Jane was looking from Tristan to Sephiria with growing unease. Was Sephiria telling the truth? Had she lied? Was Jane supposed to be here at all? Between musings about her own future however, she couldn't help but wonder about the relationship between Tristan and Sephiria. If Tristan was the supreme authority over angels in London, why had Sephiria been allowed to defy him at all? Why _didn't_ Sherlock work for Scotland Yard?

 

Why had Sephiria had to go behind Tristan's back to recruit her?

 

Tristan's eyes flashed. “You were given that leeway because of your charge's considerable talents. Talents that are meant to be used in the service of justice!”

 

“ _You_ are not justice!” Sephiria shrieked.

 

Before Tristan could reply however there came the sounds of someone thundering down the stairs, calling up to the upper floors as he went. After a few moments it became clear that it was Sherlock, his deep baritone made somewhat higher by excitement as he shouted what sounded like a mix of orders and explanations. At last he appeared on the ground floor landing, and with a final cry of “PINK!” up at – presumably – Lestrade, he took off out the door and down the street in a flurry of long limbs and billowing coat.

 

“Excuse me,” said Sephiria to no one in particular, and before any reply could be given she spread her wings and took off after Sherlock.

 

Tristan took a deep, steadying breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Quinn,” he said in a low voice, “take Lestrade from Evander.”

 

Quinn stepped forward and held out her hand. Evander reached for his right hip, revealing a keyring attached to his belt, hidden beneath his untucked shirt. Like Quinn's charm bracelet it held nothing but a collection of silver discs, but Jane didn't ask what they were as he selected one and unhooked it. He handed it to Quinn, who attached it to her bracelet without comment.

 

“See to it that Sally gives Dr. Watson an appropriate warning,” Tristan instructed. Quinn nodded, then turned on her heel and made for the police car where Sally Donovan was talking to another officer.

 

“As for you Evander,” Tristan growled, rounding on him next, “we will discuss your insubordination later. For now take Ms. Williams home.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Evander agreed, head bowed.

 

Jane didn't protest as Evander took her hand and led her wordlessly towards the main road. They walked in silence for several minutes, Evander staring forlornly straight ahead, Jane darting nervous looks between her companion and her shoes. She wanted to ask him questions, but there was a sense of finality to the scene that seemed to forbid it. She felt like crying.

 

“Should I be worried about becoming visible?” she whispered, voice cracking, more to break the silence than anything.

 

Evander stopped, and Jane stopped with him. He released her hand as though he had just realized her was still holding it, turning to face her fully. Jane watched him apprehensively, wondering what he was going to say.

 

He laughed.

 

Jane blinked. She had not been expecting that. It wasn't deep, rolling laughter, but rather a breathy, helplessly nervous little chuckle. He place one hand over his eyes, laughing in what seemed like relief.

 

“Sephiria really hasn't told you anything has she?” he asked, grinning broadly.

 

“No,” Jane said. She wondered how long it would take for her face to lose the ability to display anything but confusion and shock.

 

Evander laughed again, more a snort through his nose, and began digging in the pockets of his jeans and then his jacket. At last he came up with a pen.

 

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her, “just hang onto this.”

 

“What is it?” Jane asked, examining it a moment before nervously accepting it. It was actually quite nice; royal blue ink, ball-point but not made of plastic, gold-colored accents that glinted nicely without being gaudy.

 

“Its just a pen,” Evander shrugged, “but its been touched, by – well – by an an angel, I suppose, as corny as that sounds. Its been in my pocket awhile, so it'll anchor you to this state. Just keep hold of it, and it will help you stay invisible on your own.”

 

Jane blinked. That was . . . intensely helpful.

 

“Is this how all of you do it?” Jane asked, uncapping the pen and turning it over and over to study it.

 

“Well, most of us use our weapons, when we need it,” Evander told her as he began to walk again, slowly so Jane fell into step beside him. “The object just gives you something concrete to focus on so you're not just working on feeling, and after a while it becomes as easy as breathing. The trick is to just not think about it, really.”

 

“Why would angels carry weapons?” Jane asked, slipping the pen into her pocket but keeping her hand closed around it.

 

“To fight off demons, as cliché as that sounds,” Evander told her, putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket as he walked. “So, what has Sephiria told you on that subject?”

 

“Nothing at all,” Jane replied, “she never even mentioned anything about demons. So, what are they exactly? Not red-eyed, spike-tailed monsters with horns and hooves, right?”

 

Evander paused a little to long for Jane's liking. “No,” he said carefully, “not usually anyway. Some of the old-stock ones, yes, but you never see those anymore. Mostly they just look like us. Only with different,” he hooked his thumbs together and fluttered his hands to indicate wings, “you know?”

 

Jane nodded her understanding.

 

“As for what they do, well, its mostly what we do, only in reverse. They take people and fill them up with hate and greed and other bad things, until they become criminals. Then they try to stop us before we stop them.”

 

Jane swallowed. “That's . . . terrifying actually, when you think about it.”

 

Evander blinked. “Well, its not so bad. There are at least as many of us as there are of them, and -”

 

“No,” she cut him off, “I mean just the idea. That some . . . supernatural entity can just mess with people's minds like that, and turn good people into bad ones. Doesn't that ever freak you out?”

 

Evander looked up at the starry sky, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Not really,” he replied. “I find it . . . optimistic, actually.”

 

Now it was Jane's turn to blink in confusion. “Why?”

 

Evander shook his head, laughing softly to himself. He looked back up at the sky thoughtfully. “Well, because it means that people are basically good. It takes something literally _made_ of pure evil to corrupt them. Not every purse-snatcher has his own guardian demon, but you can bet one was involved somewhere down the line. The demons don't really scare me, I've got a weapon and I can handle them. The fact that they exist just means that humans, no matter what they become, are born good.”

 

Evander looked at Jane, smiling happily, and she couldn't help but smile back. For a long moment they just looked at each other, smiling and feeling oddly happy. She liked Evander, Jane decided.

 

“So,” she half-laughed once Evander broke eye contact, “no one seems to be able to tell me what a wingling is.”

 

“Oh,” said Evander, looking straight again, “that just means someone who's not really an angel yet. A trainee. Sort of the in-between space between being alive and human and all that, and being a guardian angel. We can't actually fly yet, just sort of levitate a bit, and we can become visible and be human . . . -esque, if we want. We have to answer to a full-time angel as well, like a mentor, until we earn our wings.” He paused. “Full-size wings.”

 

“You're a wingling?” Jane asked, surprised. “But your charge is a DI, and you go off and work with Sephiria on your own. Does that mean she's your mentor?”

 

“Nah, its Quinn,” he told her, shaking his head, “Tristan wouldn't let me train under Sephiria, even with how long I've been a wingling. Longer that Quinn's been an angel, I'll bet. God, Tristan scares the piss out of me. Only when Sephiria's beaten him though, don't worry you don't have to be afraid of him. He's not got much more power over you than he does over her, I'll bet.”

 

“Why are you still a wingling if you've been around longer than Quinn?” Jane demanded, alarmed, and Evander smiled sadly.

 

“Its 'cause I still trust Sephiria, even though she doesn't listen to Tristan. He doesn't like me enough to give me my wings. It's not a big deal though!” he said quickly at Jane's indignant look. “I've got lots of pet projects, charges that I take on just for the heck of it. Look.”

 

He stopped walking and went for his keyring again, unhooking it from his belt to show her. Up close Jane could now see the silver discs were engraved with small pictures on one side and names on the other. “Molly's one of mine, you met her didn't you?” Evander asked, picking one out from between the others and showing it to her. On the side opposite the picture it read 'Molly Hooper.'

 

“I try to pick ones that will be useful to Sephiria and Sherlock,” he explained nervously. “I just want to help, the promotion doesn't matter to me really.”

 

“What are these?” Jane asked, studying some of the others. He had quite a collection of them.

 

“Tags,” he replied, “just little tokens to show that a particular charge is our responsibility. It helps with bonding and stuff.”

 

“Did Tristan make you give up being Lestrade's guardian angel?!” Jane asked, horrified.

 

“No no!” Evander said quickly, as though eager to put her mind at ease. “I just gave it to Quinn so she could look after him while I was gone. I'll get him back later.”

 

Evander hooked the keyring back onto his belt and they resumed their journey. Jane thought for a moment. “Does John have one of those?” she asked.

 

“I guess so,” Evander replied, frowning as he considered. “Tristan's supposed to hand them out, but your case is a bit unusual. Maybe Sephiria has it.”

 

“Maybe,” Jane repeated.

 

They walked in silence for some time. Jane couldn't think of anything else to ask. Evander didn't seem to be able to think of anything else to say. At long last Evander stopped, sighing deeply.

 

“It'll take all night to walk back,” he told her, “why don't we try something a little faster?”

 

“What, get a cab?” Jane asked. Evander grinned and shook his head. He raised one booted foot and brought it down hard on the pavement, but rather than just hitting the ground with a thud it connected with something that clacked, and suddenly a bright blue skateboard materialized in the air and kicked up into Evander's hand.

 

“Cool, huh?” he said, beaming, and Jane laughed. Evander dropped the skateboard to the ground and stood with one foot on it. Grayish wings expanded from his back, indeed not quite arm-span but large enough to be obvious what they were. He flapped them once, then beckoned to Jane.

 

“Stand on the board behind me,” he instructed when she approached, “and put your hands around my waist.”

 

Jane did as she was told, and was surprised when Evander pushed off easily with the added weight. She gasped when he turned and headed straight for the nearest building, but before she could say anything the word tilted, and they were suddenly skateboarding straight up a wall. Once at a decent height Evander turned, sending them zooming along the side of the building at an impressive speed.

 

“Not a bad way to travel, eh?” Evander called over the roar of the wind. Jane laughed.

 

They reached the dormitory fairly quickly after that. Evander skated up the wall to her window, letting her climb inside before perching on the sill.

 

“I hope Sephiria sorts it out with Tristan,” he told her once they were both stable. “You seem good for her. John seems good for Sherlock. It'd be a shame to lose you both because of a stupid grudge.”

 

“We just have to hope that Sephiria knows what she's doing,” Jane replied, sitting on her bed and rubbing her eyes. “Lord I'm tired.”

 

“Get some rest,” Evander advised, and Jane nodded. With a final comforting smile he turned and, with spread wings, leaped from the window.

 

Jane waited a few moments, breathing in the stale air, until she was sure Evander was out of earshot. Then she dove for her nightstand where her phone was charging, trying to remember the number of the cab company her mother always used and hoping she could get a taxi to come to a University dormitory.

 

***

 

Standing outside the door of 221 B Baker Street Jane paused. She swallowed nervously, clutching the pen in her pocket like a life-line. She stared at the very solid looking door, thinking about what came next. What would she do once inside? Wait for Sephiria, obviously, unless she was already there. Did she really want to do this? Again the answer was obvious; _yes,_ otherwise she wouldn't have felt so sure in coming.

 

So then why was this so hard?

 

_It's not,_ she told herself, and plunged forward through the door.

 

Having previously only done this with Sephiria's help Jane registered for the first time what an odd sensation it was. The door still felt solid as she passed through it, making her feel insubstantial and frail as she realized that it was more like the door was passing through her. She could feel individual fibers of wood as they sliced through her like wires, and phantom pain prickled along her senses. Once on the other side she stumbled into the hall, realizing that at some point she had slowed down considerably. She felt substantial again, real and solid. The pain, she realized, had been created by her expectation of what wood fibers passing through her body would feel like.

 

“Psychosomatic,” she whispered to herself, then turned to the stairs.

 

The second door was easier, and once through it she found herself in the dim flat. Sherlock was reclining on a couch to her right, eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin. Sephiria was crouched at the far end of the couch, playing with his hair.

 

Sephiria glanced up. “Oh good,” she said, immediately returning her attention to Sherlock, “you're back.”

 

“No thanks to you,” was Jane's instinctive reply, suddenly recalling how she'd been abandoned to Tristan's judgment. She had expected a warmer, or at least more surprised, welcome, and now that none was forthcoming she couldn't help but feel a bit annoyed. “Why didn't you come and get me, if you were done with . . . whatever you were doing?”

 

“Thought Evander would bring you directly back here,” Sephiria mused, not looking at her. “ _Really_ need to have a talk with him.”

 

“You know you could be a bit more considerate of him,” Jane bit, somewhat offended on his behalf. “He does a lot for you, you know.”

 

At that moment however the door opened, and John pushed his way inside. Jane jumped out of the way, then looked quickly around for somewhere to sit. She selected the cluttered desk and crossed to it, not using her wings but simply climbing up and sitting with her legs dangled over the side. It no longer even surprised her that she managed to disturb nothing.

 

“He wasn't back yet?” Jane asked, a bit surprised, as John asked Sherlock what he was doing.

 

“I think he was being initiated,” Sephiria replied.

 

“Nicotine patch,” Sherlock answered John, lifting the sleeve of his shirt slightly to display not one but three round patches. “Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

 

“It's good news for breathing,” John remarked dryly, limping inside. Sherlock scoffed. “Is that three patches?” John asked, and Jane raised an eyebrow at Sephiria to indicate the same question.

 

“It's a three-patch problem.” Sherlock replied.

 

“It's also why I didn't come and get you,” Sephiria explained, continuing to toy with Sherlock's dark curls affectionately. “Couldn't leave this one alone with all those chemicals in his system. Another big part of the job, preventing things like this from frying his precious brain.”

 

John looked around for a moment. “Well?” he demanded. “You asked me to come, I'm assuming its important.”

 

Sherlock seemed to jolt awake. “Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

 

“My phone?” John repeated.

 

“Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website.”

 

John did not take this explanation well. As the boys began to argue over other available phones Sephiria stood and stretched. “Evander tell you anything interesting?”

 

“Just some stuff about dangerous, demonic opponents you forgot to mention,” Jane retorted sarcastically.

 

“Oh good,” Sephiria said, “I don't have to explain that bit to you.”

 

“Is there something you forgot to give me?” Jane demanded as Sephiria perched herself on the arm of the sofa by Sherlock's head. “A weapon, or something like that?”

 

“Don't worry about it,” Sephiria deflected, shaking her head, “you won't need one as long as you're with me.”

 

“Well if you're going to run off and abandon me like you did earlier that's not much of a comfort!” Jane protested angrily.

 

“Oh please,” Sephiria scoffed, “you were in the middle of a crime scene surrounded by police and their angels. You were perfectly safe, I knew nothing would happen.”

 

John finally surrendered his phone. “So what's this about, the case?”

 

“Her case,” Sherlock breathed, eyes closed again.

 

“Her case?” John repeated.

 

“Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake.”

 

“Okay he took her case, so?”

 

“Its no use, there's no other way, we'll have to risk it,” Sherlock whispered, quickly to himself.

 

Jane, however, did not fail to notice. “Risk what?” she demanded as Sherlock gave John back his phone with instructions to send a text, ignoring his obvious frustration.

 

Sephiria grinned mischievously. “A trap.”

 

John went to the window and looked nervously out of it. “What's wrong?” Sherlock asked, looking uncharacteristically concerned.

 

“I just met a friend of yours,” John said distractedly.

 

“A friend?” Sherlock repeated in alarm.

 

“An enemy.”

 

“Oh,” Sherlock visibly relaxed, “which one?”

 

“Why is he less concerned about an enemy than a friend?” Jane asked exasperatedly as John answered him. “And what exactly _happened_ while I wasn't here?”

 

“A good enemy is worth more than any number of lukewarm friends,” Sephiria replied mysteriously. “I told you, he was being initiated. Don't worry about it, it's nothing important.”

 

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asked in a low, interested voice. Jane took a moment to consider just how intense Sherlock's interest was.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you take it?”

 

“No.”

 

Jane beamed proudly.

 

“Pity, we could have split the fee, think it through next time.”

 

_Intense,_ Jane thought, _and fleeting._

 

“Who is he?” John asked, echoing Jane's thoughts.

 

“The most dangerous man you'll ever meet and not my problem right now.”

 

“Does the enemy have a guardian demon?” Jane asked as Sherlock reminded John about his mysterious text-trap.

 

Sephiria considered. “Yes,” she replied after a moment, “but you shouldn't worry about him. You and I are beyond his power to harm, and he's too smart to try and hurt the boys.”

 

“Jennifer Wilson,” John read off the card Sherlock instructed him to get the number from, “wasn't that the dead woman-”

 

“Yes that's not important,” Sherlock cut him off. “Just enter the number.”

 

John did as he was told, despite Sherlock's impatient nagging. “These words exactly,” Sherlock instructed. “What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.”

 

“You blacked out?” John asked, concerned.

 

“No!” Sherlock said agitatedly, jolting off the sofa and stepping on the coffee table on his way to the kitchen. “Type and send it quickly.”

 

Jane watched as Sherlock grabbed a small pink suitcase off a chair and brought it to the fireside, sitting down and unzipping it quickly. Sephiria clambered down off the arm of the sofa and lay down on it, in the same position Sherlock had been a moment ago. John finished the text and turned around, catching sight of the case.

 

“That's the pink lady's case,” he said in confusion. “That's Jennifer Wilson's case.”

 

“Yes obviously,” said Sherlock, looking at the contents of the suitcase rather than at John.  


“What's he doing with that?” Jane asked apprehensively.

 

“Watch!” Sephiria hissed. She sat up, eyes fixed on Sherlock.

 

After a moment Sherlock seemed to notice the nervous way John was staring at him. “Oh,” he said exasperatedly, “perhaps I should mention, _I didn't kill her._ ”

 

“I never said you did.” It wasn't a protest or an assurance, simply a fact.

 

“Why not?” he demanded quickly, “Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case its a perfectly _logical_ assumption.”

 

“Do people usually assume you're the murderer?” John asked, almost casually.

 

Perhaps it was the casual tone, but something about the question made Sherlock grin. “Now and then, yes,” he replied, lifting himself up to sit on the back of his chair with his feet on the cushion.

 

“How did you get this?” John asked, sitting opposite Sherlock.

 

“By looking.”

 

“Where?”

 

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves particularly a man with is statistically more likely. So obviously he felt compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it, wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

 

“I also played eye in the sky,” Sephiria explained as John expressed his skepticism. “I guided him from one place to the next and managed to cut out a few I searched while he was somewhere else.” Her lips quirked in amusement. “Darling thinks he's got a detailed map of the entire UK in his head. There's no map, its just me. Most people with angels lose all sense of direction within a month of assignment really, they get so used to relying on us so quickly.”

 

“Now look,” Sherlock instructed John, pointing at the case, “do you see what's missing?”

 

“From the case?” John demanded, “How could I?”

 

“Her phone,” Sherlock told him earnestly, “where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body there's no phone in the case we know she had one that's her number there you just texted it.”

 

“He talks so fast,” Jane remarked, adjusting herself to face the boys.

 

“He _thinks_ fast,” Sephiria explained. “He's trying to help people keep up, it usually doesn't work though.”

 

“Why did I just send that text?” John asked, as though suddenly realizing the implications of Sherlock's questions.

 

“Well the question is where is her phone now?” Sherlock explained.

 

“She could have lost it.”

 

“Yes, or?” Sherlock prompted.

 

John paused. “The murderer – you think the murderer has the phone?”

 

“Maybe she left it when she left her case, maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.

 

“Sorry, what are we doing?” John demanded. “Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?”

 

Sephiria waved her hand and the phone rang. “Incoming call,” she said softly, glancing at Jane, “got to make sure the timing's perfect.”

 

For a moment they just stared at it, then John picked it up and examined it.

 

“A few hours after his last victim and now he receives a text that can only be from her,” Sherlock narrated in a low voice. “If someone had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer,” he paused for dramatic effect, “would panic!”

 

Suddenly he leaped up, slamming shut the case and seizing his jacket off a nearby chair.

 

“Have you talked to the police?” John asked, watching Sherlock shrug into the jacket.

 

“Four people are dead,” said Sherlock seriously, “There isn't time to talk to the police.”

 

“So why are you talking to me?” John demanded.

 

Sherlock looked forlornly at the mantlepiece. “Mrs. Hudson took my skull,” he whined.

 

“So I'm basically filling in for your skull?”

 

“Relax, you're doing fine. Well?”

 

“Well what?”

 

“Well, you could just sit there and watch telly,” said Sherlock as though disgusted by the very idea, knotting his scarf around his neck.

 

“You want me to come with you?” John realized.

 

“I like company when I go out.”

 

“Is that true?” Jane asked Sephiria as Sherlock continued his odd invitation.

 

“No,” said Sephiria, getting up and making for the window, “he just wants John to come with him. He likes John, really. Can't you see how fond he's being?”

 

“No.” Jane deadpanned.

 

“I suppose he has a very subtle personality,” Sephiria mused wistfully.

 

“And you have a very subtle psychosis,” Jane retorted, hopping off the desk and joining Sephiria by the window anyway.

 

“Now you sound like Sally Donovan,” Sephiria complained. Sally's name was also brought up in the boys' conversation, and Sherlock expressed equal distaste for it.

 

“Good,” said Jane in annoyance, more to annoy Sephiria in return than anything. “She seems to be the only one in this equation with any common sense.”

 

“Sally Donovan is a moron,” Sephiria corrected, unphased, watching Sherlock leave and then turning her attention to John. “She thinks he's a psychopath with potential homicidal tendencies and she's _still_ trying her best to make an enemy of him?”

 

“Well I guess when you put it that way,” Jane conceded. John swore but got up and followed Sherlock anyway, and seizing Jane about the waist Sephiria took off from the window.

 

“You oughtn't trust Sally Donovan,” advised Sephiria over the wind, “she's Tristan's pawn. She has no opinions of her own, she just hates that Sherlock's smarter than her.”

 

“If Sherlock's so smart and you're so capable of taking care of him then what do you need John for?” Jane asked, half out of annoyance, half out of genuine curiosity.

 

“The frailty of genius, as I'm sure he's explaining to John of the killer as we speak,” Sephiria explained. “He needs applause, praise, and as much as I adore him I can't speak directly to him. John's a fresh perspective on a situation, a verbal reminder to take care of himself, an _audience,_ Jane, all the things I can't be. He's someone who's open-minded but not a genius, who can appreciate without feeling he has to compete.”

 

“You said Sherlock was explaining about the killer,” said Jane. “Does that mean they're . . . I don't know, similar?”

 

“They are,” Sephiria assured her, “and there you have it. That's why I need John.”

 

“Why?” Jane asked.

 

Sephiria began her decent. “A stabilizer.”

 

They landed just behind Sherlock and John, on their way into a cozy-looking restaurant.

 

“I don't, by the way,” said Jane quietly.

 

“Don't what?” Sephiria asked, pausing just outside to look at her.

 

“Trust Sally Donovan.”

 

Sephiria smiled.

 

Once inside the restaurant Sherlock and John were immediately given the table at the front, right next to the window that looked out at the street. Sephiria made for a table just across from theirs, in full view of both table and window.

 

“Can we sit here?” Jane asked as she cautiously sat down, reaching into her pocket to clutch the pen to ensure she couldn't be seen.

 

“Its easy enough to stop anyone else taking this table,” Sephiria waved her off, “keep your eye on the boys. We're about to develop another plot thread.”

 

“What plot thread?” Jane asked, perplexed.

 

Sephiria grinned. “Their relationship.”

 

“And what does _that_ mean?” Jane groaned.

 

“ _Watch!”_

 

Sephiria beckoned to a heavy-set man with a ponytail and a short beard some feet away. “Angelo,” she simpered, “you know what to do.”

 

“What are you doing?!” Jane hissed, but she was ignored.

 

The man immediately turned and approached the boys' table with two menus. “Sherlock!” he said excitedly, “Anything on the menu, whatever you want free!” Sherlock gave him a friendly smile, and Sephiria beamed, but Jane choked at what he said next. “On the house, for you and for your date.”

 

“What?!” Jane spluttered, glaring at Sephiria's excited giggles.

 

“Do you want to eat?” Sherlock asked, unphased by the comment.

 

“I'm not his date,” John said, eyes wide in something between surprise and horror.

 

“This man got me off a murder charge,” the man continued, completely ignoring John's protest.

 

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock introduced, looking out the window at the other side of the street, “three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town housebreaking.”

 

“He cleared my name,” said Angelo cheerfully.

 

“I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?”

 

“Nothing,” Angelo replied, then returned his attention to John. “But for this man I'd have gone to prison.”

 

“You did got to prison,” Sherlock reminded him distractedly.

 

“I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic.” Angelo concluded, immediately walking away.

 

“I'm not his date!” John repeated, a little louder, but sighed in defeat when he went once again ignored.

 

“You're doing that aren't you?” Jane accused. Sephiria smirked mischievously but said nothing.

 

Sherlock pushed his menu away as John examined his. “You may as well eat, we might have a long wait.”

 

Angelo returned with the promised candle and gave John a thumbs up, earning a resigned, “Thanks.”

 

“He's just got friends all over London hasn't he?” Jane observed dryly.

 

“Mark of hero, having friends everywhere,” Sephiria boasted. “It means you've helped a lot of people.”

 

“Sherlock thinks of himself as a hero?” Jane asked skeptically.

 

Sephiria shook her head. “The noir hero is a knight is blood-caked armor. He's dirty and he does his best to deny the fact that he's a hero the whole time.”

 

Jane stared. When she didn't speak for a moment Sephiria turned to her. “Frank Miller,” she explained.

 

“So, he doesn't think of himself as a hero?”

 

“No,” Sephiria replied, “but I do.”

 

Angelo brought John his food, and he tucked in while Sherlock continued to stare out the window. “People don't have archenemies,” John said after a moment.

 

It took Sherlock a moment to realize John has spoken. “What?” he asked, at last sparing some attention for his companion.

 

“In real life,” John elaborated. “There are no archenemies in real life, doesn't happen.”

 

“Doesn't it?” Sherlock asked, looking out the window again. “Sounds a bit dull.”

 

“So who did I meet?” John inquired.

 

Sherlock, however, ignored him. “What do real people have, then? In their _real lives?”_ he asked skeptically.

 

“Friends?” John tried. “People they know, people they like, people they don't like.”

 

“People their guardian angels want them to shag but who don't want to shag them,” Jane continued for him, earning an annoyed look. Sephiria clicked her fingers in John's direction.

 

“Girlfriends, boyfriends,” he finished awkwardly.

 

Jane seized Sephiria's wrist. “Stop putting words in his mouth!”

 

“Well, as I was saying, dull.” Sherlock concluded. Sephiria glared at him, and Jane beamed.

 

“See?” Jane demanded. “Now stop interfering!”

 

“So, you haven't got a girlfriend then?” John asked, trying for conversational but obviously curious. Sephiria jerked her fingers free and clicked them at Sherlock.

 

“Girlfriend?” Sherlock echoed, “No, not really my area.”

 

“He's mine!” she argued at Jane's murderous look. “I'm allowed to tell _him_ what to say!”

 

“Can't you just let _him_ talk?” Jane whined.

 

“Oh right,” said John, picking up on the implication of Sherlock/Sephiria's words. “Do you have a boyfriend?” Sherlock looked at him oddly. “Which is fine by the way.”

 

“I know its fine,” said Sherlock immediately, but didn't elaborate.

 

Jane covered her eyes with her hand and released a long-suffering sigh, realizing the conclusion John was left with. Sephiria glowed with pride.

 

“So you've got a boyfriend then?” John concluded.

 

“No.”

 

“Right, okay,” said John, sweltering under Sherlock's scrutinizing look. “You're unattached, like me.”

 

Sephiria's smile seemed in imminent danger of splitting her face in half.

 

“John, you are not helping!” Jane hissed as Sephiria pressed a hand to her mouth to stop her giggles. 

 

Sherlock's eyes on the other hand betrayed a hint of panic. He looked out the window again, then down at the table, obviously steeling himself to speak. Sephiria reached out a hand to him, fingers poised to click, but Jane grabbed both her wrists and slammed them down on the table.

 

“Let him talk!” she demanded as Sephiria wriggled. “I refuse to let you force them into bed with each other because you have a sick fetish!”

 

“John,” he began gently, “I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest-”

 

“No,” John cut him off as soon as he realized where the sentence was going. “No, I'm not asking, no.”

 

Sherlock looked at him carefully. “I'm just saying,” John finished, slowly and deliberately, “its all fine.”

 

Sherlock nodded nervously. “Good.”

 

“You spoil everything!” Sephiria complained when Jane released her, as soon as the blond could be certain she could not make Sherlock recant his protests and launch into a declaration of love.

 

“I've done everything you've told me since I met you,” Jane protested, “and I didn't have to be here anyway! You were supposed to do this by yourself, but _no!_ You wanted an assistant! I'm only doing what you told me I was here for!”

 

“You're here to protect John, not interfere in my plans!” Sephiria spat.

 

“That's what I'm doing!” Jane retorted. “I'm protecting John from you!”

 

“Maybe I _should_ have done this myself,” Sephiria huffed, slouching in her chair with her arms crossed and pouting. “Most great heroic couples only have one angel between them.”

 

A thought struck Jane. “You mean like Quinn?” she asked, smiling sweetly at Sephiria's scandalized expression.

 

“That's different,” she growled furiously, “Anderson is married. It's adultery!”

 

“You heard Sherlock,” said Jane triumphantly, “he's married to his work.”

 

Sephiria glared at her for a moment, then looked away indignantly. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “You win. We will revisit this later though.”

 

While they were arguing however Sherlock seemed to have noticed something out the window. He grabbed his coat and dashed outside, John following quickly behind him. Without a word Sephiria shot after him, Jane right on her heels. Sherlock paused outside to put on his coat, eyes fixed on a taxi across the street.

 

Jane could see why.

 

Crouched on the roof of the car, cloaked in shadow, was the form of a person. Not much detail was distinguishable, but Jane could make out wings that clearly had no feathers, and two glowing red eyes.

 

The taxi started forward and Sherlock made to go after it, but a car was about to pull up in front of him, and he did not seem to see it.

 

“Sherlock!” Sephiria screamed, diving forward. In a flash she clamped onto Sherlock's hip, putting herself between him and the car. It collided with her back instead, allowing Sherlock to slide easily over the hood. He continued on with a hurried apology, but Sephiria rolled forward into the street panting, face screwed up in pain.

 

“Sephiria!” Jane cried, rushing forward and kneeling beside her. “Are you okay!?”

 

“Sherlock's fine,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “I'll be okay.”

 

“How can he be fine!?” Jane protested. “He just got hit by a car!”

 

“No,” Sephiria growled, “ _I just got hit by a car!”_

 

“What do you want me to do?” Jane begged breathlessly. Her heart was racing and her throat was constricting around a hard lump. Her breath was coming in gasps, and there was a prickling behind her eyes. Her hands shook as she tried to help Sephiria into a sitting position.

 

“They're getting away,” she said, nodding toward where Sherlock and John were taking off after the cab. “I can't stop time, the demon won't let me. I told you Jane, there's no map, they have no idea where they're going. I need to fly, but someone has to stay with them on the ground in case its a trap. Can you follow them for me?”

 

“What if they catch the murderer?” Jane asked, blinking back tears. This was not the time or the place to start crying.

 

“They can't face the demon alone,” Sephiria shook her head, “they'll get killed. Just try and stall 'til I can land, okay?”

 

“O-okay,” Jane stuttered, standing up and stepping back. Sephiria's wings came out in an explosion of dark feathers, and she was immediately whisked up into the sky.

 

Jane wiped furiously at her watering eyes and began to run.

 

Sherlock certainly seemed to have no idea where he was going, Jane thought as he led them through London at a punishing speed. They had lost the demon's cab almost immediately, and now he was leading them up through buildings and across rooftops. He seemed confident in his route, but Jane was sure they were, at best, listing vaguely in the direction the cab should be going. She tried to keep one eye on the sky to see that Sephiria was following them, but the star-speckled darkness revealed no trace of a pair of black wings.

 

Between one rooftop and the next Sherlock made a leap that made Jane wince, wondering if he'd hurt himself. John seemed to have more sense, and stopped just short of it, looking down at the dizzying drop below.

 

“Come on John, we're losing him!” called Sherlock from somewhere ahead of them as Jane stopped beside him. She had only a moment to consider before spreading her small wings and catching John's arm.

 

“Jump with me dear,” she said, and together the two of them soared across the gap and landed safely, if a bit unsteadily, on the other side.

 

Sherlock led them back to the ground and from there is was tearing through alleyways and back streets. Soon they came out onto the main road, but the cab was just disappearing round a corner. Suddenly there came a great gust of wind and a whooshing noise above her, and she felt a feathery touch brush her cheek.

 

“This way Sherlock,” called Sephiria's voice, and then the wind and feathers were gone and Sherlock was leading them down another alley. Jane ran as hard as she could, panting and clutching a stitch in her side as she went. She tried to keep sight of John, but he seemed to be pulling farther and farther ahead. Just as it seemed she would lose them suddenly they were out on the main street again, John skidding to a halt and Sherlock leaping in front of a cab.

 

“Police!” he yelled, producing a badge from his coat pocket that Jane did not spare oxygen to wonder about. “Open her up!”

 

He pulled open the door to the back seat, but his face almost immediately fell. Again, Jane could see why.

 

The demon was not there.

 

Suddenly the noise of flapping wings returned and Sephiria landed on the roof of the car.

 

“Its the wrong cab,” Jane panted, leaning heavily on the nearest building.

 

“No,” said Sephiria, climbing down as Sherlock explained why the man in the taxi was not the one they were looking for, “it was always the wrong cab. This is the one we saw at Angelo's, but there's nothing special about it or who was inside.”

 

“But we saw the demon!” Jane protested, standing a little straighter.

 

Sephiria shook her head. “No,” she sighed, “we saw _a_ demon. It wasn't the one guarding the murderer, well, not that murderer anyway. I know him.” 

 

“You _know_ him?” Jane repeated incredulously as Sherlock walked off and John closed the door of the cab for him.

 

“I've faced him before,” Sephiria explained, coming to lean on the building beside Jane. “His name is Ambrose, but he has nothing to do with this case. He just likes messing with me.”

 

“Are you okay?” Jane asked nervously, looking at Sephiria's side. The brunette, however, just laughed.

 

“Yeah,” she replied, “you heal quickly, as an angel. Flying helps actually, I feel just fine. A bit sore, but fine.”

 

“Where did you get this?” John was asking nearby, taking the mysterious badge from Sherlock. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?” he read off in confusion.

 

“Yeah,” panted Sherlock, “I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one I've got plenty at the flat.”

 

John looked at it a moment, then started to laugh. Sherlock looked at him, concerned. “What?” he demanded.

 

“Nothing, just, 'Welcome to London',” John laughed, recalling Sherlock's parting comment to the unfortunate tourist in the cab.

 

Sherlock considered a moment, then chuckled softly as well.

 

“At least they're bonding over it,” Sephiria remarked, leaning her head back against the wall, “and that's something, anyway.”

 

Jane giggled her agreement.

 

Soon enough the arrival of an actual police officer initiated a race back to Baker Street, which was finished in a state of mild giddiness by all four of them. Sephiria did indeed seem to be recovered from her injury, as she betrayed no sign of pain and indeed spent the entire trip in high spirits. By the time they collapsed against the wall just short of the stairs in the front hall John and Sherlock were panting from the exertion and laughing over the absurdity of how their evening had played out.

 

“That was ridiculous,” John panted as Sephiria and Jane leaned against the opposite wall. “That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.”

 

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock reminded him, eliciting another round of laughter from both of them.

 

“He can be funny when he wants to,” Jane observed, unable to keep the happy grin off her face. Sephiria nodded, also smiling.

 

“Why aren't we back at the restaurant?” John asked, pointing at the door, but Sherlock waved him off.

 

“Oh, they can keep an eye out,” he assured John, still trying to get his breath back, “It was a long shot anyway.”

 

“So what were we doing there?” John asked.

 

Sherlock gave a grand, breathless shrug. “Oh, just passing the time,” he said, then smirked, “and proving a point.”

 

“What point?” John asked.

 

“You. Mrs. Hudson!” he called, “Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs.”

 

“Says who?” John demanded.

 

“Says the man at the door.”

 

Sephiria waved a hand at the door. “Now, Angelo!”

 

There came a knock. John glanced at Sherlock, then went to answer it, Jane following behind him and leaving Sherlock and Sephiria in the hall. Outside it was indeed Angelo who was waiting for him.

 

He was holding John's cane.

 

“His limp!” Jane cried, looking back at Sephiria. “I didn't even notice! Its practically gone!”

 

“Sherlock can be nice when he wants to, as well,” Sephiria remarked as John gratefully accepted his cane. “I noticed you called your charge 'dear' on the rooftop. Did you?”

 

“I hadn't, actually,” Jane admitted as she lead the way back inside, “I guess I am becoming fond of him.”

 

“He's easy to become fond of,” Sephiria conceded. She nodded at Sherlock. “As evidenced.”

 

They were distracted from the happy moment, however, when a tearful Mrs. Hudson came out into the hall. “Sherlock,” she sobbed, “what have you done?”

 

“Mrs. Hudson?” he asked in confusion.

 

“Upstairs,” she said, gesturing vaguely.

 

John and Sherlock glanced at each other, then bounded up the stairs two at a time, Sephiria and Jane behind them. Sherlock threw open the door to reveal a flat crawling with police. Lestrade was sitting in Sherlock's chair in the middle of it all, reclining with his arms thrown back and one foot resting on the opposite thigh. Behind him stood Evander, looking positively hysterical.

 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded angrily.

 

“An excellent question,” Sephiria shot at Evander.

 

“I'm sorry!” Evander cried, close to tears. “I didn't do it Sephiria, I swear! I couldn't stop him!”

 

“You can't just break into my flat!” Sherlock protested at Lestrade's far more nonchalant response.

 

“Well you can't withhold evidence,” Lestrade countered. “And I didn't break into your flat.”

 

“Well what do you call this then!” Sherlock shouted, spreading out his arms to indicate his collection of unexpected guests.

 

“Its a drugs bust,” Lestrade explained somewhat guiltily.

 

“What!” Sephiria shrieked at Evander, who cowered. “I told you that in confidence!”

 

“Sherlock's a drug user?” Jane demanded in alarm as John began protesting that very conclusion, only to be stopped by a very uncomfortable Sherlock.

 

“Of course he is,” Sephiria spat, rounding momentarily on Jane. “I told you part of my job is to make sure he doesn't fry himself! You didn't think it was just nicotine patches did you?!”

 

“I didn't tell anyone, honest,” Evander tried to sooth her, but only managed to bring down her wrath on him once more.

 

“I told you about the cocaine so you would _stop_ this from happening!” Sephiria yelled.

 

“I'm keeping them away from his stash,” Evander assured her.

 

“Then why did you bring them here in the first place?!” she exploded.

 

“I'm not your sniffer dog!” Sherlock told Lestrade, obviously furious.

 

“No, Anderson's my sniffer dog,” Lestrade conceded, nodding at the kitchen. Anderson appeared from behind the door, waving slightly.

 

“Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?” Sherlock demanded.

 

“I brought him,” said a voice from the kitchen. Quinn appeared from behind the opposite door, then leaned against it, crossing her arms imperiously with a smug smile. “I brought them all. Got Lestrade's tag, you know. Tristan gave him to me.”

 

“Quinn,” Sephiria growled, “I should have known you were behind this as soon as I saw Lestrade posed like a _super-villain.”_

 

“Hey!” said Evander in mild offense, wrapping his arms loosely around Lestrade's neck from behind.

 

“Shut up Evander!” Sephiria snapped.

 

“Are these _human_ eyes?” Sally asked, appearing from behind Quinn with a jar in her hand.

 

“Put those back!” Sherlock shouted.

 

“They were in the microwave,” Sally told him incredulously.

 

“ _Why_?” Jane asked Sephiria, but was ignored.

 

“Keep looking guys,” Lestrade called, then got up and addressed Sherlock. “Or you could start helping us properly and I'll stand them down.”

 

“This is intimidation!” Sephiria shrieked, stamping her foot on the floor.

 

“Damn straight it is,” Quinn answered calmly. “It's all for the greater good though, so we can get away with it.”

 

“Lestrade's here for the greater good,” Sephiria protested, “ _you're_ here because you're a sadist!”

 

“Right again!” said Quinn, grinning clapping her hands cheerfully. “Sherlock's obviously not the only detective in this equation.”

 

“You set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me!” Sherlock accused Lestrade.

 

“It stops being pretend if we find anything,” Lestrade countered him.

 

“That won't happen!” Evander assured Sephiria quickly.

 

“Shut _up_ Evander!” Sephiria repeated.

 

“I don't even smoke,” Sherlock rolled up his sleeve to reveal one of the three nicotine patches to Lestrade.

 

“Neither do I,” said the DI, rolling up his sleeve to reveal an identical patch on his own arm. “So lets work together.”

 

“He's trying, bless him,” said Evander fondly.

 

“Why don't _you_ bless him with some sense!” Sephiria advised him bitingly.

 

“We've found Rachel,” said Lestrade.

 

That brought both Sherlock and Sephiria to a halt. “Maybe he has some sense after all,” Sephiria mused.

 

“Who is she?” Sherlock demanded, the drug crisis immediately forgotten.

 

“Jennifer Wilson's only daughter.”

 

“Her daughter?” Sherlock repeated, frowning in confusion. “Why would she write her daughter’s name, why?”

 

“Never mind that we found the case,” Anderson interrupted. “According to someone the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath.”

 

“I'm not a psychopath Anderson,” Sherlock retorted immediately in a low voice, eyes brimming with offended rage. “I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your research.”

 

“I swear to every power a human has ever put faith in if one of your moronic charges opens their mouth again I will stop their heart,” Sephiria seethed at Quinn.

 

“That would be murder,” Quinn told her patronizingly.

 

“No it would be a public service,” Sephiria spat.

 

“Why do you still work with him if he admits he's a sociopath?” Quinn asked, staring at Sephiria in condescending confusion.

 

Sephiria glared at Quinn with one of the most furious looks Jane swore she had ever seen. “Not something I would expect you to understand, Woodstock, but he's my charge, and I accept him for everything he is, flaws and all. No one is perfect, but Sherlock is perfect for his purpose, and that's why I chose him. If he needs a little help he's entitled to it, and he's also entitled to do his work without being constantly mocked and insulted by the very pack of idiots he is _trying to help_.”

 

Sephiria drew a ragged breath, eyes shining. Evander was looking at her in something like awe. Quinn had the decency to look ashamed of herself.

 

“Give. Evander. Back. Lestrade.” Sephiria ordered in a low voice. Quinn did as she was told, unhooking the tag and handing it to him without a word, then turned and went back into the kitchen.

 

Sephiria pointed to Evander. “Jennifer Wilson's daughter?” she asked, broken voice reforming.

 

“Stillborn 14 years ago,” Evander said quickly.

 

“You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it,” said John in response to Sherlock's musings about the name. “Well, maybe he, I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.”

 

“But that was ages ago!” Sherlock protested agitatedly. “Why would she still be upset?”

 

John stared at him incredulously. There was a pregnant silence as everyone tried to think of something to say. Sherlock looked around, confused.

 

“Not good?” he asked John nervously.

 

“Bit not good, yeah,” John told him.

 

“Yeah but if you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?”

 

“Please God let me live,” said John, without taking so much as a second to consider.

 

“Oh use your imagination,” Sherlock ordered impatiently.

 

“I don't have to.”

 

Sephiria glanced at Jane. “A little help,” she explained quietly.

 

Jane nodded. “Right.”

 

“She's trying to tell us something!” Sherlock insisted, beginning to pace agitatedly.

 

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. “Isn't the doorbell working?” she asked. “Your taxi's here Sherlock.”

 

“I didn't order a taxi go away,” Sherlock dismissed her immediately.

 

“Oh dear they're making such a mess,” Mrs. Hudson said, looking around the flat at everything the police were disturbing. “What are they looking for?”

 

“Its a drugs bust Mrs. Hudson,” John explained calmly. Sherlock continued to pace.

 

“But they're just for my hip,” she said in alarm, “they're herbal soothers.”

 

“Shut up, everybody shut up!” Sherlock exploded finally. “Don't move don't speak don't breath, I'm trying to think. Anderson face the other way, you're putting me off.”

 

“Greg, do as he says,” said Evander earnestly, touching Lestrade's arm gently.

 

“Everybody quiet and still,” Lestrade ordered at once, “Anderson turn your back.”

 

“Oh for God's sake!” Anderson protested. Evander tightened his grip.

 

“Your back!” Lestrade yelled. “Now, please.” Anderson scoffed but did as he was told.

 

“Thank you,” Sephiria whispered to Evander, who smiled.

 

“Come on, think, quick!” Sherlock berated himself, pacing even faster than before.

 

“What about your taxi?” asked Mrs. Hudson concernedly.

 

“MRS. HUDSON!” Sherlock bellowed, sending her fleeing down the stairs. He, on the other hand, paused, a look of shocked realization on his face.

 

“Oh,” he breathed, then grinned. “She was clever, clever, yes!” he said in a voice that denoted some extreme pleasure derived from his conclusion. “She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead! Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it, she _planted_ it on him! When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer.”

 

“But how?” asked Lestrade in confusion.

 

Sherlock paused. “What do you mean how?” he asked in confusion.

 

Lestrade shrugged.

 

“Rachel!” said Sherlock excitedly. Everyone looked at him blankly, and he frowned. “Don't you see? Rachel!”

 

The blank looks continued, and Sephiria stood in front of Sherlock and grasped his shoulders. “Darling,” she said pleadingly, “not everyone is as brilliant as you. They're trying to jump on your train of thought but you have to sell them tickets. Explain.”

 

“Rachel is not a name,” Sherlock told the room loudly in annoyance, and Sephiria moved immediately out of his way.

 

“Then what is it?” John demanded firmly, having obviously lost patience with him.

 

“John, on the luggage there's a label, email address,” Sherlock instructed, sitting down at the desk and pulling his laptop to him. John gave him the address and Sherlock immediately began typing.

 

“I've been too slow,” he berated himself, “she didn't have a laptop which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smart phone that's email enabled, so there was a website for her account. The user-name is her email address and – all together now – the password is?”

 

“Rachel,” John finished for him.

 

“Lovely,” Sephiria sighed, collapsing in contentment on the chair Lestrade had vacated.

 

“It's a smart phone, it's got GPS,” Sherlock continued to explain to John and Lestrade, “which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her.”

 

“Unless he got rid of it,” Lestrade pointed out, but was almost immediately corrected by John.

 

“What do you get from hearing him talk anyway?” Jane asked Sephiria, who was still languishing on the chair.

 

“Don't worry,” Sephiria whispered dreamily, “John'll do something excellent sooner or later, and then you'll find out for yourself.”

 

“I'm not sure I want to,” Jane mumbled, regarding the intoxicated look in Sephiria's eyes with some trepidation as Mrs. Hudson returned and Sherlock dismissed her again.

 

“Get vehicles, get a helicopter, we're going to have to move fast,” Sherlock ordered Lestrade in a low voice as John monitored the loading computer search, “this phone battery won't last forever.”

 

“We'll just have a map reference, not a name,” Lestrade protested, earning reproachful looks from both Evander and Jane and a disgusted one from Sephiria.

 

_Oh come on, even_ I _know that's deliberately dense._

 

“Its a start,” Sherlock countered, apparently without the time to argue over Lestrade's lackluster intelligence. “Narrows it down from just anyone in London, its the first proper lead we've had.”

 

“Sherlock,” John called as the laptop beeped to signal the end of the search.

 

“Where is it, quickly, where?” Sherlock demanded, instantly at John's side.

 

“Here,” he said in confusion, “it's in 221 Baker Street.”

 

“How can it be here?” Sherlock asked, straightening and staring off into space in confusion. “How?”

 

“Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,” Lestrade suggested.

 

“What and I didn't notice it?” Sherlock argued, “Me? I didn't notice? ”

 

“Anyway we texted him and he called back,” John confirmed.

 

“Guys we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here,” Lestrade called, ignoring John altogether, “belongs to the victim.”

 

“It's not here!” Jane protested, frowning as Lestrade began to search also.

 

“Well its got to be somewhere,” Evander countered, “the GPS says so.”

 

“But the murderer has it!” Jane told him earnestly. “We know he has it. Unless he's somewhere in the building it's not here, Evander.”

 

“Have John do the search again,” he suggested.

 

Jane paused. “How do I do that though?” she asked.

 

“Just tell him,” Evander instructed, “he'll hear you on some level.”

 

Jane approached her charge, touching him gently on the shoulder. “John,” she said, feeling intensely foolish, “the phone can't possibly be here. Try the search again.”

 

“I'll try the search again,” John suggested immediately. He paused in concern when Sherlock excused himself for some air, but did as he was told anyway.

 

“It has to be here somewhere,” Evander repeated, going to examine the suitcase.

 

“No it doesn't,” Jane growled, officially annoyed, “we've already proven the murderer has the phone! If it was in the flat the whole time then who called it after Sherlock sent it a text?”

 

“So, what, you think the murderer is one of the police?” Evander asked skeptically. “Who would be stupid enough to volunteer to go into a flat inhabited by a brilliant detective if they'd just killed four people, _and_ bring evidence of their crimes with them?”

 

“Aren't you two missing something?” said a voice from the kitchen. Jane and Evander paused in their argument to look over at Quinn, who had finally emerged from the recesses of the kitchen. She still looked a bit shaken, but no less haughty.

 

“What?” Jane asked, “what are we missing?”

 

Quinn looked pointedly around the flat. “Where's Hart?”

 

***

 

“Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.”

 

_**“Hello there Ms. Hart. Was beginning to think you and your boy were never coming down.”**_

 

_**“You're not Ambrose.”** _

 

_**“No, but he sends his regards. You didn't really think Lord Ambrose was behind a few petty murders like this, now did you?”** _

 

“You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not your passenger.”

 

_**“No, but I also didn't think he'd be picking up the slack for his underlings. If it** _ **was** **_the cabbie then why was he there and not you?”_ **

 

_**“I think he just wanted to see you, Ms. Hart. He's got a proper crush on you, I think.”** _

 

_**“You're mistaken. He wants me dead.”** _

 

_**“You are dead. I believe he already saw to that.”** _

 

_**“Dead, but not gone. The flat is swarming with police, and without a charge you're useless, you have no power. What do you get out of this?”** _

 

_**“The honor of killing the great Ms. Sephiria Hart. For the second time, anyway.”** _

 

“If you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.”

 

“Why?”

 

“'Cause you're not gonna do that.”

 

“Am I not?”

 

“I didn't kill those four people Mr. Holmes. I spoke to them, and they killed themselves. If you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing – I will never tell you what I said.”

 

_**“Clever. You know he can't resist. I on the other hand have a little more self-control.”** _

 

_**“Control over yourself maybe, but not control over him. He'll come with my boy, you can't stop him.”** _

 

_**“I can call for Evander, or Jane, and they'll bring everyone out here. They'll stop him.”** _

 

_**“Then why haven't you done it already.”** _

 

“If I wanted to understand, what would I do?”

 

“Let me take you for a ride.”

 

“So you can kill me too?”

 

“I don't wanna kill you Mr. Holmes. I'm gonna talk to you, and then you're gonna kill yourself.”

 

_**“You're an indulgent guardian Ms. Hart. It's made you the best, but it's also gotten you in quite a bit of trouble. You'd make a proper demon. I've got shotgun, always do, but there's room for one more.”**_

 

***

 

“He just got in a cab,” John said, staring out the window with his phone to his ear, calling Jennifer Wilson's phone again. “Sherlock, he just drove off in a cab.”

 

“Sephiria got in with him,” Jane elaborated, looking over his shoulder.

 

“What?!” demanded Evander, darting to the other window.

 

“I told you, he does that,” said Sally, who had come out of the kitchen to talk to Lestrade. “He bloody left again. We're wasting our time!” she called to the officers in the kitchen.

 

“I'm calling the phone,” John told Lestrade, “its ringing out.”

 

“Why would she get in a cab?” Evander asked no one in particular.

 

“Maybe Sherlock thought of something and she's going with him?” Jane speculated nervously. Her stomach was in knots. She was beginning to notice distance from Sephiria having that effect.

 

“Does it matter?” demanded Sally angrily, “Does any of it? He's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time.”

 

_God she is stupid. What did Sherlock ever do to her anyway?_

 

“I'm a fan of Sally's explanation personally,” Quinn piped up from by the door. “Evander let's just go, Sephiria's not gonna help and neither is Sherlock.”

 

Lestrade considered for a moment, then sighed. “Okay everybody,” he called, “done here.”

 

“What about Sephiria?” Jane demanded, fighting down panic.

 

***

 

“How did you find me?”

 

“Oh, I recognized you. As soon as I saw you chasing my cab – Sherlock Holmes. I was warned about you. I've been on your website too; brilliant stuff, loved it.”

 

“Who warned you about me?”

 

“Someone out there who's noticed.”

 

“Who would notice me?”

 

“You're too modest Mr. Holmes.”

 

“I'm really not.”

 

“Got yourself a fan.”

 

_**“Ambrose's new principal.”**_

 

_**“He's waited a long time to resurface, hasn't he? He was looking for someone special.”** _

 

_**“So was I.”** _

 

***

 

“She'll be fine,” Evander tried to assure her, “she'll turn up, she always does. Just wait here for her, or better yet go home and actually get some rest.”

 

Jane watched in growing despair as the police began to file out. Her instincts told her it wasn't over, that something was happening that she'd missed, but she couldn't think of anything to say as Quinn left and Evander made to follow her.

 

“Do you want me to take you home?” he asked concernedly.

 

“No,” she said, “I don't know why, but I think its best if I wait here for Sephiria. I mean, I'm here for a reason, I figure I'll just hang around in case she needs me.”

 

“Why do you put up with him?” John asked Lestrade as the DI prepared to leave as well.

 

“'Cause I'm desperate, that's why,” he said as though it were obvious.

 

Evander glanced from Jane to her charge and back again as Lestrade made for the door. “Come on Greg,” he said, “you can do better than that.”

 

Lestrade paused at the doorway, then turned to face John. “Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man,” he said. “And I think one day, if we're very very luck, he might even be a good one.”

 

Evander shrugged. “Something like that. I think maybe that's why you feel like you need to hang around.”

 

***

 

The cab pulled up between two identical buildings, ornate stone structures with columns in the front. Sephiria recognized the place, despite being inside the cab rather than in the sky, but she didn't say anything.

 

“Where are we?” said Sherlock. It wasn't really a question, he thought he knew.

 

“You know every street in London,” said the cabbie, “you know exactly where we are.”

 

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College,” Sephiria whispered to her charge, Sherlock repeating it almost immediately.

 

“See?” said the demon patronizingly. “He needs you. Even the great Sherlock Holmes isn't much without his help, is he?”

 

Sephiria was silent as the demon emerged from the car to stand behind his charge. More his victim really, but he did take care of the man, protecting him from harm as much as a demon cared to. The cabbie was a walking cliché, exactly how one would expect an old cabbie to look. The demon was more interesting. Sephiria had expected him to be stronger, with more demonic features. As it was he had only two leathery bat wings protruding from his back, unobstructed by his black wife beater. His jeans were black and his belt dark leather, with a gleaming white skull buckle. His hair was also black, greasy and shoulder-length. His build was slight, but he was tall, and his pale skin gleamed in the moonlight. His eyes were luminous green, with cat-pupils.

 

“What _is_ your name, anyway,” Sephiria asked, going for bored. She wasn't sure if she pulled it off, or if there was even a point. He obviously knew how much this confrontation meant to her. A step closer to Ambrose.

 

“Mal,” he replied, then chuckled at her raised eyebrow. “Not too original, I know, but you might say I'm a traditionalist.”

 

“Is that why you look like a perfect stereotype of a juvenile delinquent?” 

 

Another chuckle.

 

“And you just walk your victims in, how?” demanded Sherlock. He groaned and rolled his eyes when the cabbie drew a gun.

 

“Don't worry,” he said, “it gets better.”

 

“You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint,” Sherlock pointed out.

 

“I don't. Its much better than that.” He put away the gun. “I don't need this with you, 'cause you'll follow me.”

 

Sephiria looked at Sherlock, feeling torn. The right thing to do would be to turn back, to run far away and call for help. Then again, that would have been the right thing to do back at Baker Street. She could feel his desire to go on mingling with her own. Did the demon really have some connection to Ambrose she might exploit? Could she afford to lose this chance?

 

The answer was cemented when Sherlock climbed out of the car. She followed him.

 

***

 

Jane paced the flat, worry gnawing at her insides. She was consumed once more with the feeling that she should be _doing something_ , but what that could be she didn't know. 

 

“Perhaps we should go out and look for them?” she suggested to John, not really sure why she was talking to someone who couldn't hear her.

 

John, however, did seem to hear her, as he immediately made for the door. Jane was about to tell him to settle down, Sephiria and Sherlock might come back for them, when he paused at the door, seeming to think better of it. Jane's heart clenched though when he turned around and looked directly at his cane, abandoned on the table. He was feeling weaker without Sherlock there, and Jane honestly couldn't say she didn't know how he was feeling. He took up the cane and made for the door.

 

Sherlock's laptop beeped.

 

John froze, then turned around and picked it up. Jane looked over his shoulder as his eyes widened in horror.

 

Jennifer Wilson's phone was no longer at 221 Baker Street.

 

John slammed the laptop shut, taking it but leaving his cane as he bolted out the door and down the stairs, Jane hurrying after him. Once outside he immediately hailed a taxi, but Jane stopped just behind him. Should she get in, or ride on top? She settled for the latter. Stepping back she concentrated on releasing her wings, then began to flap them as quickly as possible. It took a moment for her feet to lift off the ground, but once they did she rose steadily. Steadily, but not fast enough. The moment her foot connected with the top of the cab it took off at top speed, John having obviously impressed upon the driver just how important this was.

 

“No!” Jane cried as she toppled backwards into the street, her back connecting solidly with the pavement. She sat up, wincing, and watched in despair as the cab disappeared around the corner.

 

“Damn it!” she swore, standing up and quickly returning to the sidewalk. How was she supposed to follow him now? Should she hail another cab? Would that attract too much attention once she reached her destination? She began to pace, tears prickling in her eyes and sobs welling up in her throat. Not wanting to be seen having a nervous breakdown on the sidewalk outside an apartment that wasn't hers she thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out the pen, clutching it for comfort. The cap came off in her rough grip but she didn't spare it any thought as her mind whirred through possibilities. Nothing seemed reasonable though, and her hand began to shake as her breath started to come in ragged gasps.

 

There was a clink of something metal falling on the sidewalk at her feet.

 

Jane looked down, startled by the odd noise. There was indeed a piece of metal by her shoe, in a most peculiar shape. It looked like almost like a bolt of lighting, but the zigzags went too far in either direction, and it more resembled a scribble that a child might draw with a crayon.

 

_Wait, a scribble?_

 

Jane looked at the pen in her hand. She raised it in the air, holding it as though to write, and drew a figure eight in the air.

 

A metal figure eight fell through the air and clinked to the pavement.

 

Possibilities again began to whirr through Jane's head, but now they were suddenly plausible. She sat down on the steps and placed one ankle on the opposite thigh, exposing the bottom of her shoe. With the pen she drew a line of circles down the middle, and almost laughed in delight when they indeed became little plastic wheels, connecting securely to the sole and turning her shoe into a roller-blade. Quickly she repeated the process with the opposite shoe.

 

Now, she just had to hope that using not-quite-wings to skate up a building was as easy as Evander made it look.

 

***

 

Sherlock and the cabbie were seated across from each other, at one of the many long tables that lined the high room. It was well lit, all the lights had been turned on, but it was eerily quiet and empty without an entire class of students to fill it with life and chatter. Mal sat cross legged on the table behind his charge, and Sephiria knelt on the table behind Sherlock.

 

“Bit risky wasn't it?” Sherlock asked when his opponent did not speak. “Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid.” He took off his gloves and tucked them in his pocket. “And Mrs. Hudson will remember you.”

 

“You call that a risk?” asked the cabbie, almost conversationally. “Nah. _This_ is a risk.”

 

He took a small glass bottle out of his left pocket and set it on the table between them. Inside was a pill. Sherlock looked at it, then back at the man across from him. Sephiria kept her eye on the bottle. There was something odd about it.

 

“Oh I like this bit,” said the cabbie, “'cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this.”

 

The cabbie took another, identical bottle from his right pocket, and placed it on the table with the first. 

 

His demon grinned behind him, showing a row of pointed teeth. Another sign of youth, immaturity.

 

“You're a spree killer,” Sephiria noted. “No matter how clever your charge may be, all this is, is wanton destruction.”

 

“You know demons, don't you,” said Mal, smiling a little wider, showing even more teeth.

 

“I've been doing this a lot longer than you, infant,” Sephiria explained dryly. “When were you sired, a few weeks ago? A month?”

 

“Try ten years,” he growled. Sephiria had to smile at how fast his amusement had fled.

 

She exhaled a silent laugh through her nose. “I died a hundred years before your time. As I said. Infant.”

 

“Okay, two bottles,” said Sherlock, drawing the cabbie away from his villain monologue. “Explain.”

 

“There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle you live. Take the pill from the bad bottle you die.”

 

“Both bottles are of course identical.”

 

“In every way,” the cabbie confirmed.

 

“And do you know which is which?”

 

“Of course I know.”

 

“But I don't.”

 

“Wouldn't be game if you knew,” the cabbie protested lightly. “You're the one who chooses.”

 

“Why should I?” demanded Sherlock. “I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?”

 

“I haven't told you the best bit yet,” said the cabbie, fighting a smile. “Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together we take our medicine.”

 

“I see it now,” said Sephiria. “He gives them the bottles, and you guide their hand towards the poison.”

 

“Not bad teamwork, eh?” Mal replied, grinning once more.

 

“But none of the others had guardian angels,” Sephiria pointed out. “I'm not going to let you touch Sherlock, and without that you won't be able to protect your cabbie.”

 

Mal just smiled evilly. “My boy doesn't lose.”

 

Sephiria took a slow, deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily. “Then it seems we are at an impasse,” she said opening her eyes to fix Mal with her best determined stare.

 

“Neither does mine.”

 

***

 

She had caught up with the cab.

 

At any other time Jane might have been immensely proud of herself, but as it was she was too worried about Sephiria and Sherlock. She concentrated on keeping the cab with John in it in sight as she glided along the side of building after building, not sparing the energy to be scared of the seemingly impossible jumps between them. Turning corners was also interesting.

 

She still couldn't understand why this had happened. Sherlock go off alone with a serial killer, maybe, but Sephiria had more sense. She was worried for Sherlock's safety, that was her job after all. Surely she wouldn't allow him into a situation so overwhelmingly dangerous without any help or backup?

 

What could possibly have enticed Sephiria to allow such a thing?

 

***

 

The clang of metal on metal rang in Sephiria's ears, vibrating through her whole body. She dived, pulling her wings in and letting the air rush past her before spreading them out again rapidly once she was below her opponent. She twirled the long handled scythe once, then swung it at Mal, hovering above her. Once again he blocked her with his black iron sword.

 

He really was a classicist.

 

“Just out of curiosity,” he called over the wind as he and Sephiria circled each other, some fifty feet above the roof of the building, “how did you guess that I was so fresh?”

 

“You didn't think I'd have a detective for a charge and not know a _little_ something about deduction, did you?” Sephiria asked as he charged her, jabbing straight forward with his blade rather than swinging, forcing her to dodge rather than block. She dropped ten feet and waited.

 

“Not really,” he replied, swinging down at her and connecting solidly with the scythe blade. “Still, he does always explain.”

 

“Its obvious really,” now level with him again Sephiria sliced down with her blade, forcing him to block, then aimed a kick at his stomach. It connected solidly, sending him careening back and downwards.

 

“You have no demon marks besides your wings,” she told him as he steadied himself just in time to duck a swing of her weapon. “No horns, no claws, no cloven hooves, nothing. Demons gain more of these as they age, so you cannot have had much time to acquire them.”

 

Off balance, he swung wildly with his sword. Sephiria maneuvered easily behind him and struck him in the back with the handle of her scythe like a bo staff. He tucked in his wings as he fell, getting some way below her before turning and flaring them out again.

 

“Your teeth were also a giveaway,” Sephiria informed him as she dodged another jab, this time from below. “You have not yet developed delicate fangs, instead your teeth are designed to violently rend rather than subtly puncture.”

 

Sherlock had begun to play the game. He had protested the ridiculousness of the rules only out of the desire to understand, and now he was having fun. She could feel his deductions streaming through his mind and rolling off his tongue, each word adding to the fire inside her. She felt the power of his words flowing through her, filling her with strength. It was shaking the cabbie's confidence as well, she could feel Mal's attacks becoming weaker. She was getting more and more power, while Mal was getting less and less.

 

“Do you know why Ambrose gave you a mouthful of jagged teeth rather than fangs like himself?” Sephiria asked as she swooped around him. He turned quickly in the air, trying to keep her in his line of sight, not realizing that he was sinking slowly and tangling himself up in his wings besides.

 

“It is to give you a taste for blood and death.” She darted above him and brought the tip of the handle down on his head, hard, throwing him down another ten feet. “They're bulky and sharp; they fill your mouth, and hence your mind, with a reminder of your new found power.” He swung blindly upward, but Sephiria's foot caught his wrist, and the sword flew out of his hand, clattering uselessly to the rooftop. “They make you hunger for the flesh of death, thirst for the blood of human fear.”

 

She could feel it building up. Sherlock was approaching his final conclusion.

 

“Your trap is based in fear, Mal,” she told him as he struggled to right himself in the air, “but Sherlock has no fear. And so it is you who will tremble before my power.”

 

A star exploded in her stomach, sending waves of fire through her body. Ecstasy ripped along her limbs as warmth enveloped her, a power like no other pressing at the boundaries of her skin. Her bones hummed, her blood sang, her body seemed to expand with the rush of strength that filled her. She dove at Mal, who seemed to realize the imminence of his fall and folded his wings before himself like a shield as Sephiria brought the blade of her scythe down through the air.

 

Sherlock had been right.

 

Mal dropped to the rooftop with all the grace of a brick, straight down to land on his back, his tattered, useless wings spread out to either side of him. Sephiria descended more carefully, landing smartly on her feet a few yards away. He groaned, struggling to sit up.

 

“Well that was fun,” Sephiria remarked lightly, “but all good things must come to an end. You're going to leave this world, Mal. First though, you're going to tell me what you know about Ambrose.”

 

“I know he's taken a new charge,” Mal moaned, managing to get into a sitting position. “I know the person's name is Moriarty.”

 

Suddenly a wicked, wicked grin spread across his face. “And I know he's got poor taste in women.”

 

Sephiria scoffed. If he would not be serious, she would impress upon him the seriousness of his situation. She twirled her scythe once, then started toward him.

 

Her feet wouldn't budge.

 

Mal stood, unsteadily but with a savage pride. “You didn't think I'd go up against Lord Ambrose's most worthy opponent without any kind of plan, did you?”

 

Sephiria bent down, pulling frantically at her ankles, but no good. Her shoes were stuck to the rooftop like they were a single object. Quickly she unlaced her boot and tried to pull her foot out of it, but it seemed whatever power Mal was using to stick her there was a little too strong for that.

 

“Sherlock might have figured out my boy's game,” Mal continued, “but that doesn't mean he's not gonna fall for it. I expect he's having second thoughts about leaving as we speak.”

 

“You still didn't guide him to the poison,” Sephiria spat. “He's figured out which pill is safe by now. You can't beat him.”

 

“You still don't get it, do you?” Mal laughed. “You still don't get what you felt was wrong with the first bottle he showed you.”

 

Sephiria paused, standing. She raced through the memory of the cabbie's explanation, trying to remember the feeling the first bottle had elicited in her. Not just a feeling of discomfort; a feeling of distaste.

 

“Its marked,” Sephiria whispered, realization filling her with horror.

 

“I never guided anyone's hands, Ms. Hart,” Mal told her patronizingly. “I just made the good bottle look very, very bad.” He grinned. “Subtly, of course.”

 

Mal turned and began to walk away. At first she thought he was going for his dropped sword, but then he turned once more, standing exactly thirteen feet away. A triangle inside a circle appeared around his feet, glowing against the stone roof. From there luminous rune marks spread outward, a line of them each in several directions and a longer one stretching toward Sephiria. Another circle lit up around her feet, and between the two another one appeared, with a larger rune inside it. Sephiria recognized the demonic symbol; Fire.

 

“This trap wasn't fear, Ms. Hart,” he said, pressing his hands together in front of himself, “it was pride. Sherlock's pride in his cleverness. Your pride in him. But pride is a sin, Ms. Hart.”

 

A small flame appeared, hovering level with Mal's heart above the rune between them.

 

“A deadly sin.”

 

***

 

Jane had to keep her eye on the cab as it pulled up before two stone buildings. If she hadn't she'd have had to consider how difficult and how dangerous it was to skid to a stop on roller-blades going faster than the legal limit for a car. Somehow she managed it, then rolled after John as he got quickly out of the cab and darted into the closest building. He burst through the door calling Sherlock's name, running down the hall and checking every room he came to. Jane followed him, calling as well.

 

The halls were dark, and half the rooms were locked. John simply had to leave these, but she poked her head through each one to make sure they were closed for the night and had not been secured by the killer. On her skates she kept level with John, worried about letting him get too far from her with a murderer in the building.

 

She spared half a second to marvel at how protective she was becoming.

 

At the end of a hallway John burst through a set of double doors, breathing hard. There before them, miraculously, stood Sherlock, alive and unhurt.

 

He could be seen clearly through two windows in the building next door.

 

“Sherlock!” John called, trying to get his attention.

 

If Sherlock saw him he didn't show it, instead keeping his focus fixed on the shorter man in the room with him. John rushed to the window, Jane right beside him. Her eyes searched what could be seen of the room from where they stood, but she could not see Sephiria inside, or a demon for that matter. She called out her name, but no angel appeared.

 

A flicker of light from above caught her attention. She pressed closer to the glass, straining to see higher. There, on the rooftop, was the dancing light of a flame, and the clear silhouette of a figure.

 

They were on the roof.

 

Without giving herself time to think if it was even possible Jane put one foot on the wall and pushed off with the other, spreading her wings and propelling herself up the inside wall. She passed through the floors of each level, a blur of classrooms and offices flashing past. She came out on the rooftop dizzy and disoriented, but as soon as she had her balance once more she looked across the gap to survey the scene. Sephiria was standing at one end of the roof, pulling at her leg as though it were stuck. Some yards away stood a boy with bat-like wings that had been torn badly, and between them hovered a great ball of fire, at least as big as her head.

 

Immediately she realized the flaw in her plan; there was no way to get to the other rooftop. Without proper wings she could not fly the distance, and there was nothing to skate across. Desperately she pulled out the pen once more. In the air before her she drew two lines, a bridge connecting the two rooftops from the angle she could see. Thankfully she did not end up with two bits of useless metal, but the perspective effect instead sent the bridge stretching between the buildings.

 

She skated forward towards the bridge, hardly able to believe her luck, but when she got close enough to see it properly her heart sank. Two lines, exactly what she had drawn, connected to rooftops, but there was nothing between them to support her weight.

 

“Shit!” she sobbed. “It's not a bridge, it's just two cables!”

 

There wasn't time to fill it in, the fireball was getting bigger by the second, and Sephiria obviously had no power to get out of the way. She took a deep breath, then turned around and skated to the other end of the rooftop. Bracing herself for what was probably the stupidest thing she would ever do, and possibly the last, she extended her wings and pushed off in the direction of the cables as hard as she could.

 

Somehow her push made her shoot forward.

 

Somehow the wheels met the cables perfectly.

 

Somehow her wings stopped her from falling.

 

Somehow she was on the other rooftop, colliding with Sephiria at top speed and knocking her out of the way of a fireball as big as she was.

 

Somewhere below her a gunshot rang out.

 

***

 

_The world is wonderful._

 

That was the only thought in Jane's mind as she floated through bliss. Someone must have dumped the sun in the ocean and then dropped her in after it, because all along her skin flowed warm golden waves of light. Down in her very core, in a space behind her belly-button, she felt a spinning ball of liquid gold shoot out rays of rapture through her whole body.

 

“Hello Miss Jane,” said a voice somewhere above her, through the aura of wonderfulness that surrounded her. It sounded like Sephiria.

 

“Zoy,” she said intelligently.

 

Slowly the world came back into focus. She was lying on her back on the rooftop, staring up at the night sky. Sephiria was kneeling beside her, looking down at her in amusement. The demon was nowhere to be seen.

 

“Why do I feel like I just had sex with God?” Jane mumbled.

 

“John did something excellent,” Sephiria informed her. “I told you he would. You got some . . . positive feedback. The rush of power from his act of goodness gave you the strength to break the demon's ritual.”

 

“What happened to the demon?” she asked, frowning.

 

“Let's just say he won't be corrupting anymore cabbies,” Sephiria said with a sly smile. “He's not in this world anymore.”

 

“What happened to the _cabbie?”_

 

“He's not in this world anymore either,” Sephiria continued in amusement. “I told you, John did something excellent.”

 

“Good,” Jane sighed, closing her eyes. “I was beginning to wonder if Sherlock was just stringing him along.”

 

Sephiria laughed.

 

Soon the police showed up. The buildings were both marked off with crime scene tape, and an ambulance was called, presumably for the cabbie. Since he was dead though it just wound up with Sherlock sitting in the back of it, being repeatedly draped with an orange blanket for shock which he kept shrugging off. Jane and Sephiria sat on the roof, dangling their legs over the side and watching the goings-on below with mild interest. The roller-blade wheels and the cable bridge had disappeared at some point.

 

“What does 'Sherlock' mean?” Jane asked. Sephiria looked at her oddly. “The name,” Jane clarified, “'Sherlock.' What does it mean? What _language_ is it?”

 

“Where did that come from?” Sephiria asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Dunno,” Jane shrugged, still looking down at the ambulance, “just been wondering, I guess. There's still a lot you haven't told me. I'm curious.”

 

Sephiria sighed. “Its English, actually. It means Fair Haired.”

 

Jane stared at her, and Sephiria frowned. “What?” she demanded.

 

“Nothing,” said Jane, smiling slightly, “just, 'fair haired'? With such an unusual name for such an unusual person-”

 

“You were expecting it to mean something more interesting?” Sephiria concluded.

 

“Well, yeah. I mean, he doesn't even have fair hair!”

 

“He used to,” Sephiria explained. “It got darker as he got older.”

 

“What does ' _Sephiria_ ' mean?” Jane wondered suddenly.

 

Sephiria snorted, but answered her anyway. “Its a combined name. It comes from Saveria, meaning New House in Italian; Siofra meaning Elf or Fairy in Irish; and Seifer, which is actually a boy's name, meaning Victory Peace in German. My mother used to say it means a great deal of things at once, some of which are ordinary, some of which are mystical, and some of which are idealistic.”

 

“Seems appropriate.”

 

“And I suppose you'll want to know that Evander's name means Good Man in Greek and Gregory, which is Lestrade's first name, means Vigilant or Watchful in Greek and Tristan's name means Tumult in Welsh, now won't you?” Sephiria asked dryly.

 

“No,” Jane told her mildly, “but I wouldn't mind knowing why you call him Train.”

 

“Because he's a train-wreck,” Sephiria grumbled immediately.

 

“What does John's name mean?”

 

“God is Gracious, in Hebrew. Yours means the same, only in English. What's this fascination with names then?”

 

“Hey, you brought up a good half of them!” Jane protested. “I just wanted to know Sherlock's and yours.”

 

She paused for a moment, looking up at the night sky. “I know almost nothing about you. You know everything about me.”

 

“I don't know everything about you,” Sephiria shook her head, “but I do know quite a bit. I know when and how you died for example, which is precious information to an angel.”

 

“It is?” Jane asked, perplexed.

 

“It tells a lot about you,” Sephiria told her gravely, “not so much you, since you're fairly recent, but you should avoid talking about it if you can help it. That's part of why Quinn hates me, you know.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I figured out she was at Woodstock shortly after I met her,” Sephiria snorted again. “She's never forgiven me for it.”

 

“So, I guess you're not going to tell me how you died?” Jane asked resignedly.

 

Sephiria smiled slightly. “I'll let you know.”

 

“Are you going to tell me why you let Sherlock risk his life and yours by coming here?”

 

Sephiria looked at her for a moment. She wasn't really surprised, but she took a moment to examine her companion, as though sizing her up. “Guess,” she suggested at last.

 

Jane took a deep, slow breath, thinking. “Because you care about him more than anything in the world, including the greater good, his safety and your survival?”

 

“You were wrong on both counts,” Sephiria told her, and Jane sighed in defeat, but Sephiria held up a finger. “I don't know everything about you, and you don't know nothing about me.”

 

Jane smiled. “You're not as crazy as you seem, Sephiria Hart.”

 

“Neither is Sherlock.”

 

Lestrade approached the ambulance where Sherlock was having the orange shock blanket draped over his shoulders for the fifth time. They watched in silence for a few moments, until suddenly Sephiria's eyes widened in horror.

 

“Damn it!” she swore, “He's about to give John away!”

 

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun,” Sherlock was telling Lestrade when they landed. “A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for but not just a marksman a fighter, his hands couldn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle.”

 

“Sherlock no!” Sephiria cried, pulling his face in the direction of where John was standing, patiently on the other side of the crime scene tape.

 

“You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and . . . nerves of steel . . .” he trailed off, catching sight of John. Jane could almost _see_ his brain working, putting the pieces together.

 

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. “Actually do you know what, ignore me.”

 

“Sorry?” said Lestrade in confusion.

 

“Ignore all of that,” he repeated, waving a hand. “It's just the uh . . . the shock talking.”

 

He began to walk away. “Where are you going?!” Lestrade demanded in alarm. “I've still got questions!” he protested when Sherlock tried to dismiss him.

 

“Oh what now?” Sherlock whined. “I'm in shock, look I've got a blanket!” 

 

Jane and Sephiria both laughed at that one.

 

“And I've just caught you a serial killer!” he paused. “More or less.”

 

Lestrade hesitated, then nodded carefully. “Okay, we'll pull you in tomorrow,” he conceded, “off you go.”

 

Sherlock walked over to John, balling up the orange blanket and tossing it through the open window of a police car as he went. Jane didn't even spare a thought to walking straight through the tape along with Sephiria to stand beside her charge.

 

“Sargent Donovan's just been explaining everything,” said John awkwardly. “Two pills, dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful.”

 

Sherlock smirked. “Good shot.”

 

“Yes, yes, must have been, through that window,” John agreed, still feigning innocence.

 

“The jig's up sweetie,” Jane laughed, “he's figured it out. Didn't think you could hide it from him did you?”

 

“Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I don't suppose you'd serve time for this but let's avoid the court case.”

 

John cleared his throat, looking around nervously.

 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked. Jane tried not to be shocked that he sounded genuinely concerned.

 

“Of course he's concerned,” Sephiria chided, as though reading her mind, “this is his best friend we're talking about!”

 

“Well you have just killed a man,” Sherlock pointed out when John tried to deflect.

 

“Yeah,” John admitted after a moment. “That's true.” He met Sherlock's scrutinizing expression.

 

“But he wasn't a very nice man,” he finished confidently after a moment's hesitation, as though that settled the matter.

 

Sherlock considered a moment. “No he wasn't really, was he?”

 

“Frankly a bloody awful cabbie.”

 

All four of them laughed. Sherlock and John began to walk away from the crime scene, exchanging giddy comments and laughing to themselves as they walked. Sephiria and Jane followed behind them, smiling at their almost comical high spirits. The passed Sally Donovan, who met their giggles with an absolutely disgusted expression, which only made them giggle more.

 

“You were gonna take that damn pill weren't you?” John asked Sherlock once Sally was out of earshot.

 

“Of course I wasn't,” Sherlock deflected. “Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up.”

 

“You'll have to do better than that, love,” Sephiria told him with a giggle of her own, “sooner or later he'll find out the gun was fake, and he'll know you worked it out.”

 

“That's how you get your kicks isn't it?” John accused, though unable to make his voice sound too serious. “You risk your life to prove you're clever.”

 

“Why would I do that?”

 

“Because you're an idiot.”

 

Sherlock and Sephiria both smiled.

 

The boys started walking again, this time towards dinner, Sherlock chatting amicably about how to tell a good Chinese restaurant. The scene was ruined however when John caught sight of a dark car with tinted windows. Out of it climbed a somewhat portly man in a dark suit with a black umbrella, a pretty woman with a blackberry beside him. His face seemed to be twisted into a permanent sneer, and the sight of him made John freeze in his tracks.

 

“Sherlock, that's him,” he said quickly, “that's the man I was talking to you about.”

 

Jane gaped in horror, but Sephiria growled in anger.

 

It was Tristan, on a pair of pure white feathered wings, that was fluttering down from the roof of the car.

 

“Train!” she hissed.

 

“Sephiria,” he replied calmly.

 

Jane continued to gape.

 

“So, another case cracked,” remarked the sneering man in an oily voice. “How very public spirited. But that's never really your motivation, is it?”

 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded.

 

“I thought you said he had a guardian demon?” Jane whispered to Sephiria, eying Tristan fearfully.

 

“He does,” Sephiria told her in a low voice, glaring daggers at him.

 

“You really oughtn't be so disrespectful,” Tristan advised evenly, “what with everything I know about you, Sephiria.”

 

“Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?” the man with the umbrella was asking Sherlock patronizingly.

 

“Oddly enough, no!” Sherlock replied, with more malice and animation than Jane had ever seen him use.

 

“They are meant to be on the same side,” Tristan insisted, never breaking eye-contact with Sephiria. “As are you and I, wingling.”

 

“This petty feud between us is simply childish,” said Tristan's charge. “People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.”

 

“I'm not your bloody wingling anymore, Train!” Sephiria cried, eyes flashing. “And Sherlock is not Mycroft's errand boy!”

 

“No, wait,” said John, obviously unwilling to accept the conclusion being implied. “Mummy, who's Mummy?”

 

“Mother, our Mother,” Sherlock confirmed, still not breaking his indignant gaze. “This is my brother, Mycroft.”

 

“ _You_ recruited Sephiria?” Jane demanded in disbelief.

 

“In 1888,” said Tristan immediately. “She was an undocumented victim of the Whitechapel Murderer.”

 

“ _Jack the Ripper?!”_ Jane demanded incredulously. “Wait, didn't he only kill prostitutes?”

 

“Which Sephiria was not,” Tristan confirmed. “As soon as he realized his mistake he dumped her body in the Thames rather than have it be found. It was I who pulled her out.”

 

“And you have never let me forget it since,” Sephiria spat. “Are you going to hang it over my head for the rest of eternity?”

 

“So he's not . . .” John started to ask Sherlock.

 

“Not what?”

 

“I don't know, criminal mastermind?” John tried hopelessly.

 

“Close enough.”

 

“Can you please keep your charge from insulting mine for five minutes?” Tristan asked Sephiria.

 

“I thought you were the patron saint of Scotland Yard?” Jane asked, confused.

 

“I am,” Tristan explained, “Scotland Yard is my principal concern, Mycroft is just a pet project. I believe Evander explained that concept to you.”

 

“Its more accurate to say that Mycroft is his principal and Scotland Yard is his pet project,” Sephiria retorted, as Sherlock explained that Mycroft was in fact the British Government, the British Secret Service, and the CIA. “At least since the promotion _I_ got for him stopped being enough.”

 

Sherlock started to walk away, and both Tristan and Sephiria waved their hands to stop time, obviously not done with their argument.

 

“I recruited you to help me with the Whitechapel Murderer case,” Tristan began.

 

“And then I solved it for you and let you take the credit,” Sephiria finished, glaring. “Not to mention I took a good chunk out of a demon so ancient you'd never even heard of him when I was only _six days old!_ Where were you during that battle, by the way?”

 

Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. “I do regret that I was unable to help you on that day,” he said, in a tone of forced patience, “but it was you who refused to stay with me. When are you going to get over that?”

 

“I refused to stay with you because your charge was getting us nowhere!” Sephiria shrieked, stamping her foot in frustration. “Your upper-middle-class-white-male _moron_ had no interest in stopping a killer who was after lower class female prostitutes. Excuse me if I decided to find someone who _actually cared_ about the case to work with.”

 

“A reporter?” he asked skeptically.

 

“I forgave you for what happened that night when you were promoted,” Sephiria continued as though he had not interrupted, “it's you using a position which is rightfully mine to try and control me and manipulate my charges that's made me angry with you now.”

 

“I received orders from higher up to allow you a small amount of license due to your . . . unique relationship to the demon Ambrose,” Tristan told her firmly, “that does not mean that you can do whatever you like.”

 

“It works!” Sephiria insisted. “You know it does! You've been trying to get me back with you because you know my methods _always_ produce results. Results that you want but don't know how to achieve on your own because you _don't understand me!”_

 

“Your right,” Tristan conceded, surprising her, “I don't. But whatever you may believe I do understand what it means to be an angel.”

 

He met her gaze seriously, a warning in his eyes. “There are rules even you cannot break.”

 

Tristan took a deep breath and closed his eyes, tilting his face to the sky as though praying for patience. “However,” he said at last, “it is obvious that this,” he gestured at Sherlock and John, “is in fact an effective partnership.”

 

“Of course it is,” Sephiria huffed, but he ignored her.

 

Tristan reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a watch-chain, hung with three things. The first was a pocket watch, which had the words 'Scotland Yard' inscribed on the front. The other two were tags. One was obviously Mycroft's, but the other he unhooked and held out to Jane.

 

On one side was a picture of John's face. The other side read 'John Watson.'

 

“Welcome to the ranks of the angels, Ms. Williams,” he said. “Sephiria Hart is your new mentor. Pray she knows what she's doing.”

 

With that he waved his hand to restart time. Sherlock resumed his indignant stroll away from Mycroft, Sephiria following quickly after him, but John paused a moment to speak to Mycroft's assistant, who was standing beside him fiddling with her blackberry.

 

“Hello again,” he said, almost hopefully.

 

“Hello?” she replied, obviously confused.

 

“We met earlier on this evening,” he tried. When she did not recognize him at all however, Jane took him by the arm.

 

“Come on Romeo,” she said, smiling in amusement, “she's not your type anyway.”

 

“Okay, goodnight,” said John, giving up.

 

“So, how are you planning to ware the tag?” Sephiria asked. “Necklace? Bracelet? Belly-button ring?”

 

“You know someone who does that?” Jane asked incredulously, then shook her head. “No, I don't want to know. I was thinking of attaching it to a chain around my neck, like a dog-tag.”

 

“Appropriate,” Sephiria laughed. “You could hang your pen off there too.”

 

“So, is it going to be my official weapon?” Jane asked, pulling the pen out of her pocket and holding it up.

 

“I think its perfect for you,” Sephiria told her. “You're an artist, you should be able to take over the world with a pen like that.”

 

“True,” Jane conceded. “I was wondering though, where do you keep that scythe hidden, anyway?”

 

Sephiria grinned slyly. “I'll show you another time.”

 

“What are you so happy about?” John was asking Sherlock as they walked.

 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock answered reverently.

 

“What's Moriarty?” John asked.

 

“I've absolutely no idea,” Sherlock replied, almost happily.

 

“But you do,” Jane realized, staring at Sephiria.

 

“He's Ambrose's new principal,” Sephiria explained simply, “and that makes him Sherlock's new archenemy.”

 

“Who, or what, is Ambrose anyway?” Jane asked.

 

Sephiria paused for a moment. “He was the Whitechapel Murderer's guardian demon,” she said, “and the oldest, most powerful demon I've ever encountered, possibly in existence. He's _my_ archenemy.”

 

“So, nothing to worry about, eh?” said Jane sarcastically.

 

Sephiria let out a little laugh through her nose. “You're a storyteller,” she said, “have you ever heard of a good story about someone who had nothing to worry about?”

 

“No,” Jane admitted. “No I have not.”

 

***

 

Chemistry class seemed almost like a very surreal dream after the events of the previous night. The dog-tag chain was easier to come by than she'd thought, and she spent a great deal of time fiddling with the tag and the pen, as thought to reassure herself that she had not dreamed it all.

 

After her last class she went to the library with her laptop, hoping to catch up on some homework, but wound up just going to Cloud Nineteen to look at the first three pages in the featured section. She'd uploaded them last night, and even though they were fairly rough she was exceedingly proud of them.

 

Kelly had obviously noticed them as well, as it didn't take long for her to invite Jane into another chat.

 

**K-chan:** i love your new doujin! got your inspiration back i see!

 

**PlainJ:** yep. you could say I found a new muse.

 

**K-chan:** so spill, what was really behind your big hiatus?

 

**PlainJ:** truth?

 

**K-chan:** of course!

 

**PlainJ:** my brother. he made a bet with my dad that if i won that doujin contest a few months ago i could go to art school. i didn't win, and now i'm in pre-med. i was mad at him, and i'd lost my confidence. i didn't think my stuff was any good, so i gave up on drawing.

 

**K-chan:** what changed?

 

**PlainJ:** i guess you could say a new muse.

 

**K-chan:** i'm happy for you. its good to have you back. one last question though?

 

**PlainJ:** shoot

 

**K-chan:** what made you go from werewolves to detectives?

 

Jane grinned.

 

**PlainJ:** like I said, new muse

 

Realizing that she was getting less than no work done, Jane decided a change of scenery was in order. She put away her laptop and headed back to her dormitory, careful to wait for the traffic light to change before crossing this time. She doubted she would actually die, again, but she decided learning that lesson once was enough.

 

She pushed open the door to her room and froze.

 

“Since your roommate doesn't appear to be showing up any time soon I thought I'd keep you company,” said Sephiria from the empty bed. Or rather, what had been the empty bed, as it was now fitted with sheets that looked like black silk. The walls on that side of the room had been covered with charcoal drawings of Sherlock and John, the desk was a mess of books and papers in various degrees of decay, and the pages that Jane had drawn last night and she was sure she had stored in her desk drawer after she'd scanned them were strewn out across the bed, being inspected by Sephiria.

 

“You're pretty good,” she commented, pointing at the pages and completely ignoring Jane's shocked expression. “You draw John quite well, but you need to work on drawing Sherlock a bit more. He is the main character after all. I like your title as well; 'The World's Greatest Detective.' Appropriate.”

 

She looked up. “With a little work it could be quite nice.”

 

Jane could do nothing but give a weary smile. “Yes, I thought so,” she said. “My thoughts precisely.”


End file.
